Before the Dawn

by Candace Camp

  Alyssa shrugged, trying to shake off the feeling. “I—nothing special, really.”

  “Did you sleep with them?”

  Alyssa’s eyes flew open wide. “Philippe!”

  “Ah, is that forbidden, too?” A half smile touched his lips. “I am afraid I am not used to American mores. Tell me what I should say instead.”

  “Nothing. It’s none of your business.”

  “The way I feel about you—“

  “You can’t possibly ‘feel’ anything about me.”

  “No?” His voice was wry. “You remember earlier when you told me that you were threatened?” She nodded. “It was because you thought I might come too close to you. Isn’t that right? I might pierce your defenses?”

  “Maybe,” Alyssa admitted reluctantly.

  “You have already done that to me. You conquered me two days ago when I first saw you. I have no defenses against you.”

  Alyssa couldn’t look away from him. His eyes were deep; she felt as if she were being drawn into them.

  “I don’t want to seduce you to prove that I can seduce another woman. I don’t want to add you to my ‘collection.’ I need you. My body is hungry for you. My soul. My heart. I want to see your hair spread out across my pillow. To feel you hot and pliant beneath my hands. To wake up beside you in my bed.”

  Alyssa found it suddenly difficult to breathe. “I—I don’t know how to take what you say. You talk like a Frenchman. I’m used to plainer speech. I don’t know how many grains of salt to take you with.”

  “Of course I talk like a Frenchman. I am a Frenchman. I say what I feel. I don’t try to make it any less than it is or any sweeter. I am not afraid to let you see me as I am. It’s not exaggeration, Alyssa. It’s the simple truth.”

  “I don’t think it’s quite so simple.”

  Philippe took her hand in his and raised it to his mouth. Softly he kissed her palm, his lips moving across it in the lightest of caresses. His breath upon her skin was hot, enticing. “You make it not simple. Why should it be difficult?”

  With his lips touching her like that, Alyssa wasn’t sure anymore why it wasn’t as simple as he said. She knew she ought to pull her hand away and remind him that he had promised not to seduce her, but she didn’t want to. She wondered what his lips would feel like on her mouth… on the rest of her flesh. Philippe’s eyes darkened as he watched her. Alyssa wondered what he was thinking. She suspected that it would make her thoughts pale in comparison.

  Philippe released her hand and glanced away. He took a sip of his drink, and when he looked back at her, his face was carefully blank. “I would like to see you tomorrow. We could go to the Bois de Boulogne. It’s lovely in the spring. Will you come?”

  “Yes.” She was fast losing all resistance to him.

  He smiled. “Perhaps you don’t distrust me so much any longer?”

  “Perhaps.”

  They left the bistro and strolled back to the hotel in the enveloping night. Philippe held her arm tightly to help her across the treacherous dips and bumps of the dark sidewalk. Inside the hotel, however, he released Alyssa and politely walked her up to her room. When Alyssa took out her key, he took it from her and opened the door, but didn’t make a move to come inside. Instead he leaned against the doorjamb, smiling down at her.

  “Have I been a proper gentleman?” he teased, his green eyes a strange mixture of amusement, frustration, and desire.

  “Somewhat.” Alyssa returned with a flirtatious smile.

  He bent his head toward her, and Alyssa realized that he was going to kiss her now. A sizzling excitement sprang to life in her chest. He hesitated for just a moment, giving her the opportunity to pull back. She raised her face to his.

  Lightly Philippe ran his tongue along her vulnerable upper lip, savoring what had enticed him so from the moment he saw her. Then his lips caressed her lower lip. His mouth brushed hers with infinite lightness and returned to cover it fully, deeply. He pressed into her, his lips opening, opening hers. Alyssa’s hand fluttered to his cheek and caressed him with a butterfly’s touch. Philippe groaned, and his tongue went deep into her mouth. His arms wrapped around her, grinding her body into the hard bone and muscle of his.

  His skin flamed. His mouth dug into hers, devouring, demanding. When at last he pulled away, both of them were breathing rapidly, their faces flushed and their eyes bright. Philippe spoke only one word, “Tomorrow.”

  *****

  The day was bright and warm, with a soft breeze to stir the blossoms of the trees, and the Bois de Boulogne was filled with people. Philippe picked up Alyssa at the hotel in his low-slung convertible Bugatti. The car darted through the streets of Paris with a throaty roar that matched Alyssa’s pulse. The wind tangled her hair and whipped new color in her cheeks. She wanted to laugh for no reason. She looked over at Philippe, smiling, and he smiled back slowly. He had a devastatingly sensual mouth, Alyssa thought. She was beginning to wonder exactly why she had been so set against him at first.

  They passed the small lake in the Bois de Boulogne and stopped at the Pré-Catelan, a smaller park within the park, filled with huge and unusual trees. Philippe parked the car, and they strolled among the gigantic trees, pausing in the Shakespeare Garden for a moment. They left the path and walked until there was no sign of anyone else around.

  Philippe stopped beneath an enormous tree and sat down, spreading out his jacket for Alyssa to sit on. They leaned back against the trunk and talked. Philippe told her about his youth in Lyons, the days of hunger, poverty, and fighting. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. It’s not something that will win a woman over.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. I like learning something about you—the real you beneath the I-am-a-rich-and-powerful-Parisian role.”

  He huffed out a little laugh. “You left out handsome.”

  “Ah, well, that goes without saying.”

  “So you think what I am now is merely a role I play?” he asked.

  “No.” She drew the word out thoughtfully. “Not a role. It’s a part of you, just as the other is still part of you, another layer. But it’s the only layer you let show.”

  “And what layers do you not show?” he asked.

  “I was raised to not talk about such things,” she told him. “Diplomats don’t engage in soul-sharing. One must be circumspect and tactful, ignore inconvenient truths, and conceal one’s opinions. Even a diplomat’s family must not make waves, not draw attention, not saying anything to upset others. Reticence is the by-word. It tends to seep into everything in one’s personal life as well. And, of course family secrets must be hidden at all costs.”

  “And yet you chose to act. Something that is, by its very nature, all expression.”

  She nodded. “Yes. Perhaps that’s why I chose acting. I am finally able to say things, do things, be emotional or silly or wicked, and it’s all right because it’s only a play. Or maybe it comes from a being an only child living in an isolated situation, with a father who was rarely there and a mother who drank away her loneliness. I was forced to play all the different roles of my friends; the people in the books I read were real to me. Playing pretend lives was natural to me.” Alyssa glanced over at Philippe, whose gaze was intent upon her face. She gave a little shrug, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry; I must sound very ungrateful, complaining about a childhood spent in ease and comfort.”

  “There are other deprivations besides a lack of money or food,” he said. “I am sorry that your mother was not…present? Is that the right word?”

  “It sums it up,” Alyssa told him.

  “In that, then, we are much alike. My mother died; yours was there but not there. My mother didn’t choose to die; perhaps it’s worse to know your mother made that choice.”

  “Her drinking ruined Dad’s career. That was one of the many things I used to blame Mama for. No diplomat can survive with a drunk for a wife. Divorce was out of the question, so they o
nly separated, but even that was too much scandal for his career. No matter how well he did, how right he was for his job, everyone knew he could never become ambassador. Advising was all he could do. Troubleshooting. Correcting other people’s mistakes, pulling them out of hot water, steering them away from trouble. All without recognition, of course.”

  “You said, you ‘used to blame’ your mother. Not any longer?”

  “I idolized my father when I was young. I thought he could do no wrong. But the older I’ve become, the more I’ve realized how difficult he must have been to live with. He’s completely dedicated to his job. Wife and child came in a poor second. But putting aside all that, Mama simply was not suited for life in the diplomatic corps.”

  “In what way was she unsuited?”

  “She didn’t like to travel; she wanted a secure home. Mama was under scrutiny all the time; there was no such thing as privacy. She was nervous meeting new people and rather intimidated by all the aristocratic foreigners. Mama was sweet and pretty, but she wasn’t strong. She was a fluttery southern belle; my grandmother never approved of her as a wife for Father. Obviously Grandmama was right. But they loved each other very much. Still do, though they haven’t lived together for years.”

  “You don’t sound much like your mother, except for the beauty.”

  “You mean I’m not sweet?” she teased, widening her eyes and adopting her mother’s breathy Georgia accent.

  “Oh, I think you must be sweet.” The glance and flash of a grin he sent her carried a subtle sexual undertone, but he went on seriously, “What I meant is that you have little weakness in you. You’re a strong woman.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It’s obvious. The way you carry yourself, the way you talk. The way you defied your family to do what you wanted.”

  “Obstinate. That’s what Grandmama called it. My other grandmother, being from Georgia, called it ‘muleheadedness.’”

  He chuckled and tried out the word. “Muleheadedness. What an expression. I shall have to remember it. But, still, I think it is really strength.”

  “I was raised by Grandmama and Father. They don’t believe in weakness.” Alyssa smiled, thinking of her two very different grandmothers. “In the summer I’d visit Mama and her mother. They’d tell me to be sweet and soft, and I’d be able to get a man to do anything.” She fluttered her eyelashes in demonstration.

  Philippe’s eyes lit in response, and he placed a hand over his heart as if stricken. “They were right.”

  “Then I’d go back home to New England, and Grandmama would tell me to be strong. One didn’t manipulate men; one set an example for them.”

  “So it was she who taught you to be prickly, no?”

  Alyssa chuckled. “No. That came from experience.” Her eyes danced as she cast him a sidelong glance that had felled more than one man. “Especially with Frenchmen.”

  “You wound me!” he protested dramatically. “What do you have against Frenchmen?”

  “Their reputation.”

  “Undeserved.”

  “You mean they aren’t the world’s greatest lovers?”

  His eyes went to her mouth. His lips softened. “We could test the theory.”

  “All in the name of science?” She told herself she shouldn’t flirt with him. Philippe Michaude needed no encouragement. But today she felt very alive, giddy, even daring. The spring air must be infectious. She didn’t really want to be safe.

  Philippe reached out to touch her face; his thumb ran slowly along her cheekbone and down to her mouth. He traced the same line of her lip that he had sought the night before. Alyssa tasted the trace of salt upon his skin. She wanted to taste him more.

  His hands tangled in her hair on either side of her face, and he went up on his knees, taking Alyssa with him. Their bodies were less than an inch away from each other. Alyssa imagined she could feel the material of his shirt, the heat of his body through her clothing. She swallowed. She was fast tumbling toward her fate, out of control. Philippe controlled the situation now, if anyone did. He held her head fast, gazing into her eyes. She couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to.

  He kissed first her upper lip, then her lower, pulling it between his lips. Alyssa felt the nip of his teeth, his fingertips digging into her scalp with increasing pressure. She smelled his scent and the fragrance of spring—blossoms and earth and rain-washed air. His hands were hard and flat against her head; his mouth was soft. He tested, tasted, explored. His tongue came into her mouth, and Alyssa released a tiny sigh of satisfaction. She hardly knew she uttered it, but Philippe felt it through every muscle and nerve of his body.

  She was his.

  He kissed her more deeply, more desperately. His hands clenched in her hair. Neither remembered moving, but now their bodies were pressed tightly together. Philippe felt the full mounds of her breasts pressing through her soft cashmere sweater, the hardening points of her nipples. His arms went around her, crushing her even closer to him.

  He moved his head, changing the angle of their kiss, and hip lips dug fiercely into hers. His hands trailed down her back and caressed the curve of her buttocks. Alyssa could feel the full urgency of his desire, the stiff thrust of his manhood against her abdomen, and the passion within her bubbled up even higher.

  Finally, reluctantly Philippe raised his head. He gazed down into her face, his eyes feverish, his face flushed. His chest rose and fell in rapid pants. “We have to leave. We can’t—someone could come along.” His voice was hoarse and barely coherent.

  Alyssa wanted to melt into his arms, give herself up to him right here and now, mindlessly, brazenly. She wanted to stay. But he was already moving away, helping her to her feet, and she knew somewhere deep inside her heated brain that he was right. They had to be alone together. They walked back to the car, Philippe’s arm pressing Alyssa close to his side.

  He drove back to his apartment with great speed and concentration, never once looking at Alyssa or touching her. He didn’t dare, for fear his desire for her would boil over. Philippe parked the car and led her upstairs to his apartment. It was spacious and pleasantly furnished, but Alyssa hardly noticed it. She was too eager, too nervous. Too excited.

  Philippe led Alyssa into his bedroom. Her hand was chilly inside his. He took her into his arms and Alyssa looked up at him, her eyes wide and dark, half longing, half worried. The sight shook him. There was nothing of the sophisticated actress in her now, only a woman trembling on the brink, soft and vulnerable. “Don’t look so anxious,” he whispered, “I’ll take care of you.”

  Alyssa’s hands came up and curled into his shirt. She felt as if she were holding on for dear life, as if she could at any moment be swept away in the dark, rushing waters. It frightened her. At the same time she wanted to run into the danger. And, impossibly, Philippe was both her safety and her danger.

  He ran his hands lightly up her arms and over her shoulders, his fingers reassuring her of his desire. He kissed her neck and nipped lightly at her earlobes. He buried his face in her hair. He twisted her hair back and lifted it up to kiss the nape of her neck. Alyssa moaned softly at that, moving a little to give him better access to the sensitive spot.

  Philippe turned her and pulled her back against him, still nuzzling the side and back of her neck. He cupped her breasts in his hands, molding the plush sweater against them so that her pebbly nipples were outlined against the material. Caressing the turgid points with his thumbs, he mumbled in French against her skin, using words Alyssa had never learned in Madame Plauché’s French classes, but whose meaning and urgency were clear.

  Philippe undressed her, pulling off the soft sweater over her head and unclasping the delicate strand of pearls around her neck. He unzipped her narrow skirt and tugged it down and removed her sheer slip. He set her down on his bed and bent to unfasten her garters, raising one leg and sliding the gleaming silk stocking down her thigh and calf and off her foot. A
lyssa’s breath caught in her throat at the gentle caress of his fingertips. He kissed her instep, and Alyssa shivered. With equal slowness he smoothed the other stocking from her leg.

  He undressed, his eyes never leaving her as he pulled off his clothes and dropped them on the floor. Alyssa stared at the lean beauty of his body, the graceful curve of long muscle and thrust of hard bone. Black hair roughened his arms and legs, but the skin of his chest and stomach was satin smooth, inviting her touch.

  He came to stand beside her, reaching down to caress her face. His fingers drifted over the smooth skin of her neck and chest to the silk that covered her breasts and hips. His fingertips skimmed her flesh, faintly rough against her softness. Her skin was on fire wherever he touched, and she wondered if one could die from the sheer pleasure of a man’s hands.

  Alyssa moaned low in her throat. Philippe stretched out on the bed beside her, taking the last fragile wisps of her underthings from her. He kissed the thin line of her collarbone and the soft hollow nestled at its center. Alyssa’s hands dug into the bedspread beneath her. She had never felt anything as exquisitely warm and soft and exciting as his tongue on her skin. She trembled as his mouth moved lower, laving the tender skin of her chest and coming at last, with aching slowness, onto her breast.

  “Philippe!” she cried softly as his mouth found her nipple.

  He did not answer. He could not. He was incapable of anything except feeling the riot of sensations pouring through him. He knew only the supreme softness of her breast and the thrusting fleshy button of her nipple, the hot ache that opened up within his gut, demanding more, the wild pleasure heightened by a prickle of pain as her fingers pulled his hair. He moved over her, his weight pressing her back into the feather bed. His mouth moved to her other breast. Blood pounded in his head, in his throat. He thought he could drown himself in her.

  Alyssa’s leg moved against his, sliding over his hair-roughened skin. His hand went to her leg, stroking up and down the length of her thigh, fingertips digging into its softness. He wanted to savor her breast forever, wanted to explore every inch of her skin and taste each exquisite pleasure. But desire drove him, wild and urgent. He had to have her. Had to sink into her welcoming warmth. His hand slid in between her legs and found the satin fold of her femininity. She was slick with desire, heated and waiting for him. He couldn’t hold back any longer.