by Foster, Lori
With concentrated deliberation, Zane forced his fingers to unclench on her hips and raised them to her breasts. He cuddled them, stroked her nipples as she lifted, fell, lifted, fell. Her movements were unpracticed, but enthusiastic.
“Roll your hips,” he told her in a rasp, knowing it would increase her pleasure.
“Like this?”
It was his turn to arch, and they both moaned at how deeply he entered her.
Her thighs strained, the sleek muscles pulled taut. She clasped him, her sex pulling at him like a voracious mouth. He fought hard not to come yet, to hold off until she’d taken her own orgasm one more time.
“I don’t believe this,” she whispered a few minutes later when he felt her tightening around him, milking him.
He clenched his teeth to keep words of love unsaid. Watching her, seeing her beautiful face twisted and real with the savage pleasure of their lovemaking, was a gift he’d never forget.
She cried when the last spasms had left her, and Zane turned her beneath him, licking at her tears and driving into her hard and deep and rough, once, twice ... He threw his head back and shouted as he came.
Tamara managed to get one arm around him when he fell heavily atop her. They were both sweaty, heat pouring off their bodies, adhering them together. She made a sound, like wonder or disbelief or ... love.
God, let it be the start of love.
Puckering required more dexterity than he could summon, but he moved his lips against her neck, the only reply he could muster.
He was just thinking life couldn’t get any better when a fist rattled the bedroom door and Thanos’s voice rang out, imperative and angry.
“Tamara! Are you all right? Answer me, damn it.”
“No,” Zane mumbled, unable to reconcile his sluggish brain and depleted body to the fact of intrusive relatives right now, at this precise moment. Relatives he hadn’t heard enter the house. Relatives who were loony, and apparently angry to boot. “No, no.”
The small, warm body cushioning his stiffened alarmingly.
“They not only have a key,” Zane managed to mumble, “but they use it?”
Taking him and his debilitated body by surprise, Tamara became a small whirlwind and threw him off. He almost slid over the side of the wrecked mattress to the floor. He was just stabilizing himself when a naked thigh came over his head and Tamara scrambled to her feet.
“Just a minute, Uncle!”
Zane reached for her wrist and missed. Seconds later his slacks hit him in the face. “Get dressed,” she hissed, then scurried around the room grabbing for clothes. Her movements were awkward and jerky, but then, she’d just come several times. He was shaky, and he hadn’t lost his senses nearly as often as she had.
Feeling very put upon, Zane dragged himself to a sitting position on the side of the bed. His knees were rickety, damn it. “What are they doing here?”
Tamara’s face was pale, her eyes filled with mortification. “They come every Sunday.”
“And you forgot to tell me this?”
She fried him with an evil glare. “You distracted me.”
From the other side of the door, Thanos said, “I can hear every word.”
“Go away!” Tamara wailed, her face bright red.
Incredulous, Zane stood, waited to see if he’d fall flat on his face, and when his legs didn’t give out, he pulled on his slacks.
Thanos’s booming laugh reached them. “I’ll be in the kitchen with the others. I gather you could use some coffee. Don’t dally or I’ll be back.”
Yanking a shirt over her head, Tamara ordered, “Hurry. Finish dressing.”
“Tamara.” Zane caught her and held her still when she struggled. “Honey, I know this is a little embarrassing—”
“Ha!”
“—but you’re a grown woman and this is your house. You don’t have to explain anything to anyone.”
A look of absolute incredulity crossed her face. “Explain? I think they understand already!” She paused, looked at his chest, and touched a small bite mark over his pectoral muscle. She remarked in distressed tones, “A shirt. You definitely have to put on your shirt. And shoes, too. I don’t want my aunts eyeing your naked feet.”
“Who gives a damn about my naked feet?”
“I do!” She tugged on the same jeans she’d worn the night before, glanced in the mirror, and hastily finger-combed her hair. “This is just awful.”
“Well.” Zane sat on the edge of the mattress to don socks and shoes. God forbid he should flaunt his damn feet. “That’s a great way to lacerate a guy’s ego.”
She looked harassed. “I don’t mean you. I mean this— getting caught, facing nosy relatives.” She paused to say with heartfelt sincerity, “You were ... indescribable.”
Still without his shirt, Zane stood and folded her close. “Shh. They’ll hear you.” But he was grinning and couldn’t seem to stop.
She covered her face and dropped into his embrace. “I can’t believe I forgot about them. I can’t believe we didn’t hear them. They always knock first. Who knows what they thought when I didn’t answer.”
“We know what they’re thinking now, that’s for sure.” He slid his hand beneath her tangled hair and clasped her nape. “But don’t worry about it. We have plenty to distract them with this morning.”
She groaned as a new reality intruded. “Last night is almost a blur. Do you realize whoever broke in could have come back today and we wouldn’t have noticed?”
“Which is why,” Zane told her, seeing the perfect opening, “you’re not going to argue with me when I have an alarm system installed to cover the doors and windows.”
“No, I don’t—”
“I know. You don’t need or want my help.” He pressed his thumb over her lips, and when that didn’t appease him, he replaced his thumb with his mouth. This kiss was filled with the love he not only accepted, but relished.
She inspected his face, and Zane wondered how much of what he felt was apparent to her. How much of it could she perceive? When her gaze softened, he assumed she was aware of at least some of the emotional depth she’d taken him to.
“You make me feel like a high schooler on prom night, Tamara, waiting to see if I’ll be asked to dance. I don’t like it.”
“Oh Zane.” Her tone was apologetic, concerned, as it always was when she feared she might have hurt him somehow. “I don’t want to make you feel bad.”
“That’s a start, sweetheart.” He kissed her again and then set her away from him. “I want you protected, so I’m taking care of an alarm. It doesn’t ingratiate you to me in any way. It doesn’t tax me financially and you don’t owe me anything in return.”
“Zane....”
“And it means nothing more than that I care. Because you sense my emotions, you surely already know that, right?”
It was an admission, plain and simple, but not one that would threaten her independent nature.
Green eyes dark and intense, she nodded slowly.
Relief flooded through him in near painful pleasure. “Excellent.” He touched her cheek. “I want to do what I can to see that you’re safe when I’m not with you. Okay?”
Every line of her petite body bespoke exasperation and uncertainty. “How am I supposed to respond to that?”
Zane caught her face in his hands and said with as much seriousness as he could muster when his body was so sated and his heart so full, “I know you don’t have much practice at this, but you could just say ‘thank you.’ ”
She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “But....”
“No buts, sweetheart. No doubts. You either trust me or you don’t.” He added, unable to stop himself, “Trust me, Tamara.”
She sighed. “You keep saying that, though what it has to do with trust, I don’t know.”
“It has everything to do with trust.”
As if pondering world peace, she considered what he said. Zane thought she took far more time than the situation,
or the proposition, warranted. It was her uncle bellowing down the hallway that the coffee was ready that helped her make up her mind.
In a rush, she said, “Okay,” and almost as an afterthought, “Thank you.”
She started out of the bedroom in a rush. Zane caught her, pulled her back, and stuck the cell phone in her pocket. “You’re to carry it on you at all times, remember?”
Tamara rolled her eyes and took off again—the phone with her.
Loving an independent, headstrong Gypsy with meddlesome, wacky relatives wasn’t going to be easy.
But not loving her was the impossible alternative, so like each of his brothers before him, Zane smiled as he accepted his fate.
The Winston curse had struck again.
Seventeen
Tamara prepared herself as best she could to face her aunts and uncle. It wasn’t easy, being so distracted. Zane cared. Not just about the wonderful physical relationship they’d started, but about her, as a person. His affection washed over her like a soothing hand, giving immeasurable comfort, unqualified support. She’d never experienced anything like it before.
It was both pleasurable and frightening.
She hated being vulnerable, like a small child once more, unsure where she would go or what she would do after her parents’ death. The thought of moving again was bad enough, but at least that was her decision, a way of maintaining financial security rather than sitting around and waiting to lose her shop.
Above all, she needed to be in charge, even in failure.
Zane’s attention kept her utterly out of control, with her mind, her body, her emotions.
Her heart.
She knew how to handle most situations—by pushing forward with sheer strength of will and stubborn determination. She’d learned to do that as a means of survival, even before her parents had passed away. Her relatives were on the money when they called her a white sheep. Compared to them, she was so sedate, she bordered on dull. To them, she was dull.
What they found exciting and carefree, she found intimidating and unstable. She wasn’t meant to be a Gypsy, at least not the mobile kind. She wanted to keep her stationary life. She wanted to keep her shop.
She wanted to keep Zane. Damn.
Ignoring the aching in her heart, she plastered a serene smile on her face and stiffened her backbone, primed to face her aunts and uncle and all their speculation.
No way was she prepared for the guest they’d brought along.
She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the man sitting at her small kitchen table, sipping coffee with elegant grace.
Zane, following close on her heels, ran into her. He grabbed her shoulders to steady them both. Tamara accepted his heat, his strength at her back.
They were both frozen for a mere heartbeat before her temper detonated and she lurched forward.
“You!” Ready to commit murder, to gain retribution for the night’s fright and the other deeds that had cost her so much, Tamara reached for Boris. Her fingers caught air and she drew up short when Zane snagged the back of her jeans.
Sublime confusion on his aristocratic face, Boris Sandor observed her with one raised, sardonic brow. “Excuse me?”
“What the hell are you doing in my house?” she roared. Her vibrating anger was slightly diffused by the fact Zane had her up on her tiptoes, his hold on her waistband unrelenting.
“Calm down, Tamara,” he told her in a nearly bored voice that only she realized was laced with real menace. Oh, he was furious all right, but he was also more collected. That only annoyed her further.
“Let me go,” she said to him.
“Will you control your volatile tendencies?”
It was there in his voice; he wouldn’t let her go unless she could restrain herself. Though she knew he was right, it galled her. “For now.”
He acknowledged her concession with a smile. “Just keep in mind, sweetheart, that I’d hate to have to kill him with your relatives looking on.”
The relatives gaped at each other in fascinated awe. She was used to Zane now, but they certainly weren’t.
He continued, saying, “Better not to provoke him until we’ve had a chance to talk.”
That made sense, damn him. They did need to understand the motives behind the break-ins. And she didn’t want Zane killing anyone, especially not for her.
Her aunts kept giving her horrified looks, and her uncle had risen from the table, alerted by her fury.
Thanos’s bushy beard quivered as he demanded, “What is it, little one?”
Glaring at the intruder, Tamara asked, “Why is he here?”
Boris Sandor slowly came to his feet. He was immaculately dressed in gray trousers, a dark blue sweater over a silk shirt, and polished shoes.
The contrast to the rest of them was striking. Her aunts wore loose, colorful dresses layered by either a shawl or a home-knit sweater, and Thanos was in brown jeans and a flannel with rainbow striped suspenders. Behind her, Zane’s hastily buttoned shirt hung loose from his waistband and had wrinkles from a night on the floor. Her own clothes were rumpled and slightly askew.
Boris Sandor’s annoyance slapped against her. Once again, she was surprised by the depth to which she experienced him. It made her feel queasy.
“Ms. Tremayne?” Vague distaste threaded through his icy politeness. His gaze encompassed her from ears to toes and back again. “My God, is that truly you?”
Both her aunts jumped in to explain, anxious for a new tack to take, other than her embarrassing outrage.
“She’s forgotten her wig.”
“She seldom looks so ... rumpled.”
“Apparently we’ve interrupted”—Olga shrugged helplessly—“ something.”
The scattered statements ended with more wide-eyed conjecture. Their confusion was apparent, as was their curiosity.
The emotions in the room were high; Boris’s ugly contemplation, her aunts’ and uncle’s confusion, speculation. And Zane’s barely leashed anger. Her head throbbed. She wasn’t used to feeling so many people at one time. She felt overloaded, weighed down.
The only way she could think to get through this was to take charge.
She cleared her throat, thrust up her chin, and avoided her aunts’ gazes by staring at Boris. “Yes, you’ve interrupted. But that doesn’t tell me why the hell you’re here.”
“Tamara,” her uncle growled. “I’d like you to explain your behavior.”
She felt heat flare in her cheeks, and the touch of Zane’s body on her back. Her chin went up another inch. “You knew I wanted him.”
Mouths dropped open, eyes widened. Boris made a sound of derision.
On a choked laugh, Zane said, “I think he means your temper, sweetheart, and your reaction to your ... guest.”
Embarrassment was lost beneath invective. Oh, she could tell them why she objected to Boris!
Aunt Olga beat her to the punch.
“My word,” she exclaimed, “she’s been debauched.”
Eva clasped her hands to her generous bosom. Even with the start of cataracts, her black eyes were piercing and bright. “You think?” Then to Olga, “She’s showing signs of the Tremayne passion.”
Olga, who also looked dumbstruck, yet thrilled, cried, “But it’s for the wrong man! It was supposed to be Boris.”
“What?” Tamara couldn’t quite believe her aunts’ audacity. It was obvious to one and all what they had blundered into that morning, and they persisted in the delusion she might be interested in Boris? Forget that they didn’t know he was a criminal of the meanest sort, ruining her business for heaven only knew what reason. Forget that she barely knew the man.
Zane, tall and proud and gorgeous beyond compare, stood directly behind her. His large hands were on her shoulders in a proprietary display, a display she in no way objected to. She leaned into him.
They could see him.
Surely they didn’t for a single moment think she’d trade down for Boris? The mere thought had her c
urling her lip.
Boris cleared his throat. “Perhaps this isn’t the most auspicious time for me to call.”
Zane’s fingers tightened. “For what you have in mind, Sandor, there won’t be a better time.”
Olga stepped forward. “Don’t be so hasty, young man. It’s good for a woman to have suitors scrap over her. And Boris is better suited for what we have in mind.”
Tamara gasped. “For what you have in mind?”
Thanos tugged at his ear. “He’s wealthy, little one, and influential. There’s a lot he could do to help us, and he understands our people.”
“I’m from the homeland,” Boris reminded them.
Tamara felt the throbbing waves of Zane’s anger, but could think of no way to reassure him. She said with dripping disdain, “Since when do we need anyone’s help or influence? I can handle my problems on my own.”
Zane’s hands moved from her shoulders to lightly encircle her throat, as a gentle reminder that he would help.
She absently patted his hand to let him know she accepted him, then continued. “And you say he understands our people? Then he’s one up on me, because I sure as hell don’t.”
Horrified, Olga turned to Boris and patted his shoulder. “She’s a white sheep, never quite getting into the swing of things, if you know what I mean.”
Eva added, as if it were a sin, “She’s ... steadfast.”
With courtly condescension, Boris murmured, “I do understand.” His gaze was hungry as he scrutinized Tamara.
Tamara wanted to distance herself from the physical interest she sensed in Boris, which conflicted with his emotional disdain. He didn’t like her, but he wanted her.
She stepped back, and found herself encompassed by Zane. There was no reason for her to cower, no reason for her to let Boris frighten her. She was here, as Zane had said, in her own home. She wouldn’t tolerate Boris’s haughty imposition.
“I was born and raised in America,” she said. “Only my most distant relatives were foreigners. Your claims don’t mean a thing to me, Boris.”
Dismay had her aunts fretting and Thanos shaking his head. Tamara decided to get it all on the table. “Besides,” she sneered, “I don’t associate with disreputable scoundrels.”