by JoAnn Ross
Half-crazed himself, desperate to touch her, he yanked down the back zipper of her strapless dress, causing it to fall into a white silk pool at her feet.
Blythe closed her eyes and swayed, moaning raggedly when he took her breasts in his greedy hands, warming them, molding them. He’d been starving for her for too long; having finally abandoned abstinence, he intended to feast. He was merciless, tasting her silken flesh with his lips, his tongue, his teeth.
Desire. Passion. Excitement. He tasted it on her slick, hot flesh, felt it in the way her fingers dug painfully into his shoulders, heard it in her shimmering sighs and ragged moans. He savored each new sensation he brought to her, drinking in the sensual sight of the riot of emotions that swept across her face and clouded her eyes.
Needing more, he slipped his fingers beneath the ivory lace cut low on her hips. His touch was as wicked as it was practiced, drawing a faint moan from between her parted lips as he traced his fingers through the nest of sable curls.
No less eager to touch him as he was touching her, needing to torment him as he was tormenting her, aching for the feel of flesh against flesh, Blythe yanked Gage’s white shirt open. Buttons skittered across the floor, ignored. She arched against him, fitting her soft feminine curves to his hard warrior’s body.
On a half groan, half curse, he dragged her down onto the mattress, where they sank deeply into the thick goose down. His mouth captured her, seduced her, drew her deeper and deeper into the mists.
He stripped away her silk panties, exposing her to his heated gaze. Her creamy skin glowed like pearls; a rosy flush, like poppies, bloomed across her chest. Her hair was a thick sable cloud over her shoulders, her eyes were wide and as dark as obsidian.
“I’ve dreamed of you like this.” He lay beside her, drinking in the sight of her, lying in the moonlight streaming in through the open shutters.
She wanted to tell him that she’d dreamed of him, too. But when he began blazing a path down first her throat, then her torso with hot, wet, openmouthed kisses, she could no longer talk. She could barely breath. All she could manage were throaty moans and shuddering breaths.
Greedily, his mouth returned to her breasts. When his lips closed around a taut nipple and tugged, Blythe felt a series of tiny explosions that rippled their way down from her breast to the source of heat pooling between her legs. When he took the other pebbled bud between his finger and thumb, she moaned and arched her back.
Gage explored every inch of her alluring body with his hands and found her wonderful. He tasted every bit of fragrant flesh and knew that there had never been—would never be—a woman more perfectly suited to him than this one.
With a hunger that equaled his own, she began tugging at his slacks, but he deftly avoided her, shifting away from her seeking hands. Although he’d always prided himself on his control, had always considered himself a considerate lover, Gage knew that if he allowed those questing fingers to so much as skim against his throbbing sex, he’d have no choice but to take her quickly.
And he wasn’t ready. Not by a long shot.
Her body was sleek, moist, responsive. She’d abandoned inhibitions, surrendered control, trusting him implicitly. His name tumbled from between her lips as he laid a wet swathe down her stomach with his tongue. Her hands thrust into his hair, urging his head lower.
Gage willingly obliged.
His teeth scraped against her inner thighs, drawing a moan from deep in her throat. He took hold of her hips, lifted her to his mouth and feasted.
His tongue dove into the hot center of her pleasure. Blythe cried out as the first orgasm shuddered through her, but before she could recover, he was driving her up again, higher and higher, to peak after torturous peak. He watched, incredibly aroused by her abandonment. She was hot and damp and exhausted. But still she wanted more.
“Please.” She writhed on the tangled sheets, fusing her body to his, struggling to capture him between her legs. It was not a plea, but a demand. “I want you, Gage. Now.”
He left her only long enough to strip off the last barricade between them and to sheathe himself. The idea that he’d think to protect her at a time like this told Blythe once again that she’d chosen well. But then he was kneeling between her quivering thighs, looking down at her with such a savage intensity it took her breath away.
“You’re mine.” He lowered his body against hers. Torso to torso, thighs to thighs.
“Yours,” she whispered.
His eyes locked on hers. Watching. Waiting. “Forever.”
She could not speak. But her lips, unbearably dry, formed the word, yes. With his eyes still open, still on hers, he plunged into her, with one strong, deep stroke. Her body arched, absorbing the sudden surge of male strength. He saw her stunned pleasure, experienced a surge of satisfaction that he’d been the one to put it there.
But then she locked her long legs around his hips and he felt her muscles close around him like a tight, moist velvet fist. And Gage was lost.
Burying his face in her hair, wallowing in its fragrance, he allowed his body to take over. He drove into her welcoming warmth, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, matching the upward thrust of her hips, claiming her in a frenzy of power and speed.
Blythe cried out his name again as he poured himself into her, as he called out hers. He felt her climax, like an explosion around him. The aftershocks seemed to go on forever.
Sprawled on top of her, too spent to move, Gage tried to draw lifesaving breath into his burning lungs. And even as he tried to tell himself that it had never been like this before, somewhere, in the far reaches of his mind, a distant voice insisted that wasn’t honestly the case.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” Blythe said quietly. Her hands were no longer clutching at his bare back, but caressing his scratched and wounded flesh in long, slow strokes. “So many times.”
He lifted his head. “About you and me?”
“Sometimes.” Her expressive eyes were home to an appealing blend of warmth and confusion. “But at other times—”
“It’s them.” Gage swore quietly. He rolled off her, but unwilling to let go of her quite yet, he lay on his side and put his arms around her. “Patrick and Alexandra.”
Blythe sighed. “Do you believe in past lives?”
Having always considered himself a practical, feet-on-the-ground kind of guy, he immediately answered, “No.”
“Neither did I.” She lifted her gaze to his. “But lately, I can’t help wondering.”
“It’s because we’ve both been obsessing on them,” Gage insisted. “Mix that in with the chemistry that has flared between us from the beginning, and it was probably inevitable that we’d end up blending their stories in with our fantasies.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Her expression, and her tone revealed that as much as she wanted to believe Gage’s explanation, she wasn’t entirely convinced.
“It’s the only plausible answer,” Gage insisted.
Not wanting to get into an argument, so soon after having experienced the most exciting, fulfilling lovemaking of her life, Blythe didn’t answer. Instead, she snuggled closer and pressed her lips against his chest.
Gage ran his hand down her hair. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”
She tilted her head back and smiled up at him. “Good. Because I don’t intend to let you.”
Then, twining her arms around his neck, she lifted her mouth to his.
Outside the open window, leaves from the olive trees whispered, adding harmony to the plaintive, sad sound of a mandolin drifting on the soft Mediterranean sea breeze.
Inside, Gage and Blythe took turns pleasuring one another. Now that the initial fiery flare of passion had burned itself out, the pace blissfully mellowed. Their slow kisses turned dreamy as their hands moved lingeringly over warming flesh.
And this time, as they floated back to earth, entwined in each other’s arms, Blythe felt a contentment so rich, so sweet, it brought tears to he
r eyes.
7
THE TOWN WAS QUIET and pink in the early morning light as Gage and Blythe drove through the deserted streets. The houses were cool and shuttered, the still air was drenched with the sweet, lingering perfume of night flowering stock and jasmine.
Blythe drank in the sights, the scents. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been happier,” she murmured.
Gage braked for a herd of the seemingly ubiquitous goats being herded through the narrow, winding roadway. The tiny copper bells around the goats’ necks added a tinkling accompaniment to the tolling of church bells.
“There’s still a chance that Natasha won’t be able to tell us anything helpful.” Knowing how much the project meant to Blythe, he hated thinking that they’d gone to so much trouble, traveled so far, only to have the former makeup artist turn out to be a dead end.
She heard the warning in his tone. And the concern. And, most of all the love. Blythe reached across the space between the two seats and placed her hand on his leg. “I know. But, believe it or not, I wasn’t thinking about Natasha.”
Her heart was in her eyes. “I was talking about us. How you made me feel last night. How I feel this morning.” She swallowed as she chose her words carefully, wanting him to understand that what had happened last night was more than the result of a romantic, moon-spangled night. “I love you.”
Gage let out a long breath. He had not realized exactly how badly he’d needed to hear those long awaited words. Giving thanks to whatever fates or ancient gods had brought them to this place, he covered her hand with his and asked, “When?”
“Did I realize how I felt?” A whispery gust of sea breeze fanned her hair. Blythe blew some errant strands from her eyes. “For certain last night.” Her thoughtful gaze turned sober. “But to tell you the truth, I think I’ve loved you forever.”
No poet could have penned such sweet words. No mortal playwright or novelist could have written a scene that made his heart soar so high. Or made him feel so humble.
With a groan of pleasure, he dragged her from her seat onto his lap, cupped the back of her neck, and covered her mouth with his.
“Oh, by the way,” he said when the long satisfying kiss finally ended, “in case I’ve neglected mentioning it, I love you, too.” His smiling lips plucked at hers. “So, when do you want to do it?”
She was slowly sinking under the sensual spell his lips were weaving. Even after all they’d shared last night, desire began to rise, sharp and sweet at the same time. She pressed her palm against his chest, felt the thunder of his heart and knew he was no less affected. “Do what?”
Threading his hands through her thick hair, he pushed it away from her face. Lord, she was beautiful! Inside and out. And she was all his. Forever. He lowered his mouth to hers again and murmured, “Get married, of course.”
“Married?”
Gage felt the change immediately. An involuntary stiffening of her spine, a tensing of her lips beneath his. Warning himself not to ruin things by going off half-cocked, he slowly lifted his head. “When two people love one another, it’s usually customary,” he said with a casualness he was a very long way from feeling. “Even in Hollywood.”
Blythe knew she should not be surprised. If she’d been honest with herself, she would have admitted that although he’d waited until now to tell her he loved her, over these past months she’d sensed that his feelings went deeper than a mere detective-client relationship.
“Three days ago I was engaged to Alan.”
“And now you’re not.” His tone was mild but his eyes were not. Realizing that Gage was not a man to share his emotions easily, Blythe knew that if she wasn’t extremely careful, she could end up ruining what they had together.
When she would have slid back over to her own seat, his arms tightened around her. “Unless I’m mistaken, you just told me you loved me.”
“I did, but—”
“And I love you,” he continued, cutting her off. He was angry, Gage realized with surprise. Really angry, bordering on furious. It was unlike him to come so close to losing his temper. “So, I’m having trouble understanding what the problem is, Blythe.”
It was the intense calmness of his tone that was the tip-off. The quieter his voice, the more measured the words, the more dangerous the man was. Blythe wondered why she’d never realized that before. Wondered how many criminals had mistakenly underestimated his seemingly unrelenting patience. “I want to say yes,” she began haltingly.
“Then say it.”
He made it sound so easy. And perhaps, for him, it was. “What would people say?” The moment she said the words, she realized how ridiculous they sounded.
His oath was short and rude. “What the hell do you care?”
“I don’t. Not really.” That was the truth. “But don’t you think it’s awfully soon to begin making plans?”
“No.”
There was, Blythe saw, no reasoning with him. “I hadn’t realized you could be so hardheaded.”
Gage was tempted to counter that he hadn’t known she could be so damn stupid. “Now you do,” he said instead.
She closed her eyes. Then opened them and tried again. “I already made one mistake, with Alan—”
“Are you comparing me to that stuffed-shirt bastard?”
“Of course not.” She place a conciliatory hand on his arm and felt the muscle tense beneath her fingers. “Never.”
He read the absolute truth in her distressed eyes. Heard it in her fervent tone.
“It’s just that I need time. Time to figure out how to separate what I feel for you from what I’ve fantasized Alexandra feeling for Patrick.” Her fingers tightened. “It won’t change the fact that I love you. But right now, I’m just so confused. I need time to think.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you think too damn much?”
“It sounds familiar.” Cait and Lily had both urged her to trust her feelings where this man was concerned. Easier said than done, Blythe agonized now.
Her shoulders sagged. Watching her battling the moisture brimming in her eyes, Gage felt the war raging inside him. He didn’t immediately respond to her ragged admission. By the time he felt capable of speaking calmly again, sympathy had won out over pride.
“All right. I won’t push. Not now.” He traced a finger around her trembling bottom lip. “Right now it’s enough to know that you love me, Blythe.” Her remarkable eyes were cautious. Almost fearful, making him realize that he had no choice but to give her time. And space. “But it won’t be enough forever.”
“I know.” Her breath trembled out. She was on the verge of promising that she’d sort things out as soon as she could when a horn from a truck suddenly blared from behind them.
Gage swore, shifting into gear as Blythe quickly returned to her seat. “Timing, they say, is everything.”
Blythe murmured a vague agreement to his muttered pronouncement, even as she silently thanked the burly driver for the propitious interruption.
Kyriako Papakosta was an immensely popular novelist, lionized in his home country. One look at the gleaming white yacht revealed equally strong foreign sales.
“Obviously restructuring ancient myths pays very well,” Blythe murmured, recalling the last book the author had written, about a hero who’d reenacted Ulysses’ travels.
“I’ve seen U.S. destroyers smaller than this ship,” Gage agreed. “Looks as if Natasha has done all right for herself.”
Her attention momentarily captured by the bright flags snapping in the morning breeze, Blythe murmured a vague agreement.
Natasha Kuryan proved a definite surprise. Although Blythe knew the petite woman had to be in her eighties, it was impossible to judge her age. She was dressed in vintage clothing reminiscent of a Russian Gypsy. Her snowy hair had been twisted into a long braid that hung over her shoulder and was tied with a piece of white lace.
“Welcome aboard.” She greeted them with outstretched hands. “I’m so sorry I’ve caused you so muc
h difficulty. As I told your friend when he called yesterday from Athens on the ship-to-shore radio, your cables only caught up with us two days ago.” She hadn’t entirely lost her accent, even after all the years away from her home country. Her smile was quick and sincere, making her appear decades younger and giving a glimpse of the beauty she once had been.
“Time in the Greek isles,” she told them needlessly, “does not necessarily move at the same speed as in the rest of the world.”
“I’ve found that to be an advantage, at times,” Gage answered, exchanging a warm, reminiscent glance with Blythe.
Never one to miss a thing, Natasha’s bright green eyes sparkled with pleasure. Having been in love more times than she could count, she always enjoyed watching others experience similar pleasures.
“You’re quite right,” she agreed with a fond look upward, toward the bridge. A tall, muscular man, clad in jeans, a striped black-and-white fisherman’s shirt, and blue billed cap waved at her. Natasha waved back.
“Kyriako has asked me to invite you to breakfast,” she revealed. “He also will insist on giving you a tour of his pride and joy.” Her beringed hand waved, encompassing the gleaming yacht.
“I’d like that,” Blythe said. Gage immediately concurred.
“It’s really quite fascinating. He’s turned it into a museum.”
“A museum of what?” Blythe asked.
“Of himself, of course.” Natasha smiled with feminine indulgence. “Like most successful, handsome, Greek men, Kyriako is not lacking in ego.”
She tilted her head, suddenly studying Gage as a diamond cutter might observe a newly mined stone. “You have Gary Cooper’s profile,” she decided, abruptly changing the subject. “Coop was so wonderfully handsome.” She breathed a reminiscent sigh. “And such a marvelous lover.”
Since neither Gage nor Blythe knew how to respond to such an intimate statement from a woman they’d just met, neither answered.