As she raised the glass to her lips, Drake realized that he was not the only man staring. Every man in the bar was looking and having sinful thoughts. His thoughts were equally sinful ... satin skin and deep penetration, touching and join climax, sweat and coming again and again, filling her with the essence of him.
He surveyed the room, checking every man's eyes with his eagle-like gaze. She belonged to none of them, but they all wanted her-in the worst way. He had an almost uncontrollable rage, a primal need to lock her away, to keep her for him and him alone. To make sure that she was his and that no man would dare to lust after her. He had never felt this way before-the urge to stake her as his woman.
When he looked at her again, an image of Beth appeared. In his mind's eye, Beth was a faint shadow, which flickered and then faded away. As she disappeared, he was free. He could love again, unhampered by his ghostly love for his ex-wife.
Watching Beth fade from view, Drake felt no regret. He felt no urge to call her back. She had taken her rightful place in his life. She represented what could have been, but never was. This unknown woman, this true vision with hair the color of brushed rosewood, was his future.
He wondered how long he had been standing there. He spotted Jessie Dane, the casino's owner. He knew that she felt the sexual tension in him and in every other male in the room. He knew that, in a more primitive time, there would have been trouble, gunslingers loading up their six-shooters, prepared to fight and to die to eliminate rivals for this woman. The survivor would stand alone after the gun smoke cleared, to grab her, kiss her, seal his right to possession, and then drag her from the saloon. Out in the dusty streets of Carson City, he would fling her upon his stallion-whether she was willing or no-and ride off into the Black Rock sunset. The long ride would be filled with even longer stops for persuasive seduction, deep, passionate kisses, warring tongues, and eventual fulfillment.
But Drake was a civilized man of forty-five, no young, randy cowboy controlled by raging hormones. He was a lawyer and a gentleman and, moreover, a gentleman of the new millennium. Drake Smith didn't behave like a desperado of the 1890's. Or did he?
He stepped further into the room, glaring at each man in turn. Male eyes dropped into beers or suddenly became interested in the tacky Elvis memorabilia being sold on the local home shopping network. Ted Peterson, the bartender, finally put down the beer mug that he had been wiping for the fourth time and served his customers. Several women grabbed their escorts and hurried out, but not before one disgruntled bottle-blonde slapped her gawking husband.
He took a seat, directly opposite her, in one of the recently vacated booths. She gave no indication of his presence or of the stir that she had created. She seemed calm, cool and collected, as if a dozen lusting men was quite ordinary. Ignoring everyone and everything, she signaled Peterson over for another sherry. Having done so, she dismissed him as if he were nothing more than a troublesome puppy.
Drake's temper rose and he ran his hands through the strands of his white-gold hair. He didn't like being ignored. He was the famous lawyer, Drake Smith, who commanded the attention of everyone whenever he entered a room. She had to feel his eyes upon her. He was staring openly, but she refused to acknowledge his presence. He didn't like the game because it was a game that he rarely had to play. He wanted to shake her, to force her to look at him, to make her know him as the man who wanted her and would have her.
He had to play his cards carefully. She was daring him to make the first play. He suspected that she was a skillful poker player who would play her cards close to her breast. He laughed silently at how he had garbled the old saying. Vest. She would probably hide a couple of aces in her vest pocket. In vain. Tonight, he planned to search her-inside and out.
It turned into a waiting game with each trying to outlast the other. He stared. She ignored. It was late now, after two o'clock. Peterson had shouted last call and the final few customers had downed their drinks and left until there was only him and her.
She took the last sip of her sherry and rose, her face averted. She reached for her small evening purse, easing her shoulder muscles as she did so. The strain of ignoring him for the past two hours had worn her down. He only needed to push his advantage.
With the romantic: "You're beautiful."
With the sexual: "Your room or mine?"
With the non-threatening: "Hello, I'm Drake."
The man who was known for thinking on his feet couldn't think of a thing. She was leaving and he had to act. Without thinking, without being aware of his actions, he strode over with the stiff-armed stride of a knight carrying his shield. She turned to leave; he grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him. She raised her face to his. Their eyes locked. He suffered a shock. She had violet eyes. And she was blind.
"Release me," she said, her voice was low, husky, sexy.
Those two words brought back every ounce of his sexual wanting. Drake, the gentleman who had never been impolite to a woman, who had never been disrespectful to a woman, who had never mistreated a woman, said, "Never."
They stood in the doorway of the lounge, warring combatants, face-to-face, neither retreating nor advancing. For how long they would have stood there is anyone's guess. Probably until time stopped. But Jessie Dane rounded the corner of the bar, intent on locking up for the night.
Drake gave Jessie The Look-the fierce, hard gleam that turned scheming negotiators into blubbering idiots, which cowed bitching stockholders, which convinced doubtful investors to empty their pockets. Jessie respected that look and skirted around the air that he had emphatically claimed as his own.
Chapter 2
Drake shifted his eyes back to the woman whose wrist he held in a firm grip.
"Release me," she said again in that same low, husky voice.
He paid no heed, his eyes lingering on each soft feature of her face, stopping at her mouth.
The full, rich redness of her lips was hypnotizing, and he wondered what it would be like to steal a kiss. Acting on that thought, he leaned forward, beckoned by a will that was not his own. It was as if a war raged within him with rivals fighting for control. One was appalled at his disgraceful behavior, but the other-the more powerful antagonist-urged him on.
As he came closer, her warm breath touched his face. He remembered the way her lips had pressed against the glass. The memory aroused him and he wanted to taste her sweet lips on him.
"Don't you dare kiss me." She said the words through those sweet lips, but instead of sweetness, there was haughty anger.
"Why not? I want to." He leaned in, bringing his lips close to hers.
"Cash," she said, the corners of her mouth curling up.
Her demand stabbed Drake with remorse and the muscle pulsed in his strong jaw. She was one of Jessie Dane's backroom girls who provided favors of the sexual kind for cold, hard cash. He understood the looks of the other men. They knew that she was a whore who would lie down on any man's sheets and spread her legs for money.
No matter, her occupation was immaterial; her immorality was irrelevant. He would have her, regardless of her price even if he had to empty his pockets, cash out the ATM, and liquidate his portfolio.
"How much?" he said. "Whatever, I'll pay."
"Two hundred," she said.
"Fine."
"Three hundred."
"Deal."
"Five."
"Up it to a grand," he said, his jaw pulsing again.
"Why?"
Drake threw caution to the wind.
"Because you're the most beautiful woman that I've ever seen and I want you."
"Cash," she said. "My name is Cash."
Her eyes were alive with silent mirth. She had turned the tables and he had lost another hand.
"Where did you learn to play poker?" he asked.
"I don't play poker. Blind people can't play poker."
"Weak ploy," he chided. "Too obvious a lie."
Her smile widened and she grinned despite her best efforts no
t to do so.
"Now we've been introduced, let go of my wrist."
"What?" His eyes were again drawn to her lips.
"Let go."
He dragged his eyes away. She wanted to be released. He wanted otherwise. To pull her chest-to-chest, until all parts touched, until he lost himself in her.
He looked down at his hand wrapped around her slender wrist. When his fingers released her, one by one, he saw the slight, red marks. He'd had no idea that he was holding her so tight as if he would never let go. He did not intend to hurt her, to mar her beauty. He leaned down and kissed the offending marks.
Her skin was like satin-smooth and very soft. He caught a trace of her scent, and the combination of her taste and her smell tempted his control. He planted tiny little kisses on those red marks, nursing each one in turn. The kisses aroused him and he wanted more. He nipped where he once kissed, trailing light kisses down her arm to her elbow and over to her nave-that erotic spot where forearm meets upper arm. There, she had applied a touch of perfume. He sniffed, kissed, and then licked with just the tip of his tongue. Becoming bolder, he teased the entire length of that inner sanctum, using his tongue with jabbing strokes.
She sucked in air at his boldness, standing quite still like a mare receiving a rutting stallion. She knew that they were standing alone in the doorway of the casino lounge and that it was quiet, dark, intimate. She knew that he was aroused and that he was moments from leading her into the deserted room, to the nearest booth, to the soft, leather cushions, to pushing up her dress, to taking her. Despite this knowledge or perhaps because of it, she reached down to caress him.
"Don't do that," he said, pushing her hand away. He shook his head against the clouding passion. "Don't touch me unless you want to be taken. Are you ready for that? Are you?"
The war, which was once inside him, was now inside her. As with his battle, her factions-the conservative cautious versus the reckless-clashed for control.
Her uncertainty was apparent on her face. He took the decision out of her hands.
"You're not," he said, "and neither am I. Sweetheart, let's get out of here."
"Okay, but don't call me that." She stuffed her folded cane inside her purse and felt for her shawl.
"Why the hell not? I've tasted you. You are sweet," he said, struck by how the endearment fit. Sweetheart ... yeah ... sweetheart. She was already sweetly in his heart. In the space of a few short hours, he had fallen for her-hard.
"Because I don't like it," she said. "Sweetheart, baby, honey, all those pet names that men shower on women, not using their names; they don't see women as equals."
"Fine, but I refuse to call you Cash, so we'll have to compromise. What about your real name...?" He let his voice trail off, inviting her to grant him this small victory.
"It's Cash or nothing," she said, as if issuing a royal decree.
Her childish pout enchanted him. She was a mix of queenly woman and saucy minx. Unable to resist, he placed a quick kiss on her sulky lips.
"Tell me," he coaxed, giving her arm a little shake.
He wanted to know everything about her, her likes and dislikes, her hopes and desires, and, most importantly, how to please her in bed.
"It's Alexis," she said simply. "Alexis Claremont."
Chapter 3
Alexis Claremont. She said her name formally, like an introduction to a stranger. Her formality was absurd given that they had almost been as intimate as possible between a man and a woman.
"Hello, Alexis Claremont. I'm Drake Smith, the Drake Smith."
"You're famous?" Alexis questioned. She sniffed loudly. "Why do famous men always wear Armani? I read in People that Armani makes Harrison Ford feel horny."
"Uh-uh," Drake said, shaking his head. "Harry is an Old Spice man."
"You know Harrison Ford. You're joking, right?"
"Why? Are you planning to sniff him too? He's an old client of mine."
"Well, if I met him at the Silver Dollar and he..."
"So you always sniff strangers in casino lounges?"
"Uh, no. Only strange strangers who strangely stare stimulate sniffing."
Damn! She's quick, he thought. How did she know I was staring? Before he asked the question, he caught himself. He wouldn't fall into another one of her traps, instead choosing to bide his time before employing the element of attack.
"You're not one of those," he said with an exaggerated groan.
"One of those, what?"
"A punner."
"Yep, that's me. Every chance I get, I make with the punning."
"Why do I get the feeling this relationship is gonna be more than I bargained for?"
"We're in a relationship?"
"I'd say yes considering that you've already felt up my prick."
"But that was through your pants. It's not a relationship until it's skin on skin."
"I'll keep that in mind," he said, taking her purse and shawl. "Should I lead?"
What was PC? Should he guide or let her trail? He sensed that she was fiercely independent. It was a measure of how hard he had fallen for her that he was prepared to walk on eggshells around her.
"Of course," Alexis said, taking his arm. "I don't know where we are going."
"To my car."
His car was the only place where they could be private, but not so private-like his place or hers-that he would lose control. After all, he would have to keep at least one hand on the steering wheel.
He led her to his black Jaguar XJ8 coup, a cherished gift from his foster son, Johnny. He helped her into the rich leather of the bucket seats and tried to buckle her seatbelt, but she pushed his hands away. He circled to the driver's side and started the engine. The Jag vroomed to life and, in minutes, they were speeding away to the mountains of Nevada.
It was a beautiful night. It was a night for lovers. Crisp but not cold with a gentle wind. As they hit the open road and left Reno behind, a thousand stars appeared in the sky. The full moon glowed, leading Drake to fancy that the gods were smiling upon them. They even had their own music as the waves of a nearby lake lapped the shore in perpetual rhythm.
It was a night for lovers and for sharing.
She was on the shady side of thirty and originally from New Orleans. She had earned her B.A. from the Mass. Institute for the Blind and her MBA from Columbia. She was considered a financial wiz, hence the nickname, "Cash." New to Nevada, she moved from New Orleans to take over the CFO slot at McCord Diversified.
"How long have you been, um, uh...?" Drake asked. He sought the right word.
"Blind?" She finished his question. "You can say it. It is not a dirty word."
"Okay. How long have you been blind?"
"Since I was seven. I have retinitis pigmentosa, RP for short. It started when I was five. My father noticed that I couldn't see snowballs thrown to my left or right. My last sight memory was of the tigers at the circus. I woke up the next morning and I couldn't see a thing. I kept thinking that my sight would improve, at least a little, but it didn't. I still have memories of colors, of course, so I guess that's something."
"You get around well. I mean, I haven't noticed other blind people, but..."
"It's my SUE."
"Pardon?" Drake asked, quirking one silver eyebrow.
"My SUE, short for Sightless User Emulator. It's a visual sensor that bounces radio waves off objects so I know how close I am to them."
"Like radar."
"Yep, but far more sophisticated. The visual sensor then transmits the info to me in the form of beeps. Loud, I'm close. Soft, I'm far. I hear the beeps in this receiver, see."
Alexis drew back her hair with a sweep of her hand and craned her neck towards Drake. He saw a tiny device that looked like a hearing aid tucked in her ear. He also noticed the soft line of her check and neck, made for kissing. He imagined his head buried in the hollow of her neck in the morning after sex, her smooth, silky skin so different from the rough stubble of his day-old beard. He would raise his bod
y from hers, look into her violet eyes, and...
"It's cutting edge tech," she said, letting her hair go. Drake felt cheated when her hair fell back in place as if closing a curtain on his fantasy, just when it was getting hot.
"Isn't it risky? I mean, if something when wrong, if it malfunctioned," he asked, trying to concentrate. He patted the sweat at his brow and wondered if the air conditioning was working.
"You know what they say about no risk, no gain. Actually, that's why it's not available to the public. You'd be surprised what you can get with the right connections and if you grease the right palms. This visual sensor is a marked improvement over the old prototypes. Five years ago, it was the size of a ZIP disk and almost as heavy. Today, it's smaller than a watch and I can wear it under a headband or on a piece of jewelry."
"But you still use a cane."
"I cane when I have to, when it's a new place, when I'm nervous. If I don't have to, then I don't. That's why I stick to the same places, my usual haunts, and Jessie's been great about not moving the furniture."
"Wouldn't a seeing-eye dog be safer?"
"A sight dog? I suppose so, but no. Nothing screams blind person like a German shepherd and a red-and-white cane. I have my SUE. That's enough. It has to be."
Her voice trailed off and she turned her head as if to look out of the window of the car. Drake sensed her discomfort and something more. It was almost as if she were going to cry. He felt a tug at his heart, causing him to make a quick decision.
He took the next turn, wheeling the car smoothly down a shaded country lane. The headlights from the Jaguar danced across the trees and mingled with the moonlight. When the woods grew dense, the yellow-and-white flowers of sagebrush drooping over the road, Drake pulled the car over and cut the engine.
"We have been driving for hours," he said. "Let's stretch." He reached across her to open her door. Her hand was already at the handle and she shooed his hand away. Before he could round the car, she slid out of the seat and shut the door. She reached into her purse for her cane and whipped it open. "I'm ready," she said, tapping the tip of her cane against the ground. "There's no need for that," she scolded, when Drake took her elbow as if to guide her.
Romantic Days, Romantic Nights Page 14