Behind her was France and Europe, old, difficult to understand for someone from the New World, endlessly fascinating. And somehow, this tall woman standing on the beach, her hair and clothes whipped by the wind, was Sammy Whitfield, poised in that moment right in between.
The hovercraft ferry came into sight, a ship that rode the water on jets of compressed air surrounded by a giant black rubber bumper like an inner tube. The trip that had taken England’s invaders days was now a matter of forty-five minutes.
Sam leaned up against Chip’s car and watched the ferry head straight for the open beach. All you have to do is make up your mind, she thought, sighing.
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the dark, deep in exhausted sleep, she felt it happen again. Someone was trying to shake her awake. A voice was saying, “Samantha—Samantha, darling, stop howling.”
The low, husky voice was familiar, but somehow that didn’t help; Sam couldn’t stop screaming. Then a hand went over her mouth, muffling her cries, and a strong arm held her tightly. The same voice continued, “Samantha, it’s all over. Nothing’s going to happen. But the neighbors are going to call the police if you don’t stop this racket.”
She fought off the grip of his arms around her, sitting bolt upright in bed, her eyes staring wildly into the blackness. Shaking, she was drenched with cold sweat. It wasn’t the dream he thought it was—gunfire, terrible screams and the attack in the hallways of the Maison Louvel—but those had probably triggered it.
“Where are we?” Sam shrieked. Pieces of reality were coming to her out of the dark. “What am I doing in bed with you?”
His hands pulled her against him again. She felt him as a warm, comforting body, hard muscles under smooth skin, a strip of strange fabric around his midsection. The bandage, she remembered. Strong arms cradled her against him, and in the blackness she recognized the musky male scent of Chip. “It’s London, love, you’re in London. We’re both too long to fit on the sofa, and this is my bed.” When she kept sobbing, he smoothed her hair with a big hand. “It will all go away in a minute, Samantha. Just relax and let me hold you.”
She knew it wouldn’t go away, but Sam turned to him and pressed her face against his shoulder. It was only Chip, she told herself.
“It’s a snowstorm,” she whimpered, “the same damned old blizzard.” Her hands found the corded muscles of his forearms and she dug her fingers into them. “They never come to find me, that’s why I’m so scared. When it was real, they laughed about it. They thought it was funny. But in the nightmare they never come for me!”
She felt him stretch to turn on the lamp on the table beside the bed. Brightness sprang into the room. There she was, in bed with Chip, blinking and still clutching his enveloping arms, pressing herself against him, wild-eyed.
“Snowstorm?” his voice rumbled against her. “What snowstorm, love?”
“Yes, a damned blizzard.” Her voice was slightly hoarse from screaming. She grabbed him around the neck, not wanting to let him go. “They let me off the school bus and I was supposed to wait by the mail box. I was only in the second grade, and I was waiting for one of my brothers to come down to the road in the pickup and get me.”
And nobody came. You could never explain that to somebody who hadn’t been poor, who hadn’t lived out in the country miles from anywhere, that you had gotten off the school bus and then stood in a swirling blizzard knowing, after a while, that they’d forgotten you. Just because somebody was too drunk to remember you or had gone off somewhere to round up the livestock because that was more important. That had happened more than once.
Nobody helped you in this world, Sam knew. She pressed against that solid, rock-hard chest, still sobbing. That’s why you had to fight so hard for everything, to connive and work and take advantage of everything you could.
“And so you died,” he smiled, holding her tight.
Well, no, she didn’t die, she thought, frowning. Sam pulled back enough to look up into his face and saw Chip’s black eyes glinting under long, furry lashes, his mouth curved so that the one dimple showed in the corner. “My brother came along on a pony, because he couldn’t get the pickup truck through the snow.” She lifted her arm to wipe at her eyes with the back of her wrist, childishly. “And he thought it was funny.”
“Poor little orphan of the storm,” Chip whispered into her hair. “Nobody loves it.”
“What?” She tried to pull back from Chip, but he held her tightly, his arms wound around her so that her breasts, her slim form and her legs touched him down the length of his slightly hairy, muscular body. “You don’t understand,” she sniffled, sticking out her lower lip. “Nobody ever does.”
“And how many people have you told this to, besides me?” he asked gently.
She had to think. “Only you,” she said finally. She relaxed against him again and felt warm and comfortable, strangely safe. “You don’t understand, it’s a nightmare. It only comes back when I’m tired, or—or when a lot of things happen to me. You just don’t make these things go away.”
He smoothed back her hair with his big hand. “Poor Samantha.” The burr of his deep voice in his chest reached through to her wet face pressed against it. “Poor beautiful Samantha, afraid of the cold and snow and being left with nobody to love her. Is that what all this is about?”
That didn’t sound right, she thought, and frowned again. “You don’t know what it’s like to keep dreaming it,” she sniffled. “It just goes on and on, for years and years now. I know I’ll never get rid of it!”
“That’s too bad.” He kept stroking her hair softly. “It’s a terrible burden, a nightmare like that,” he murmured, “and feeling sorry for oneself. Especially when one is the most astoundingly beautiful, golden thing any man would want to find in his arms, and an intelligent, talented, courageous woman, too.” When she stiffened, he went on, “But then of course that’s because you’re just a lone orphan, waiting out there in the blizzard, Samantha. At least that seems to be the way you see yourself.”
She was still for a moment, not believing what she’d just heard. “That’s a lousy thing to say,” she said, a little uncertainly. She tried to push him away. “I think you’re making fun of me because I’ve had a nightmare.”
He wrapped his arms around her quickly, not letting her go. “I’m not making fun of you, Samantha. I just find it hard to go along with your feelings of deprivation when you wake me with blood-curdling screams at three o’clock in the morning. And when there’s so little foundation for them.”
“They’re real!” she cried, struggling. “I don’t give a damn what you think! I might know you’d say something like this to me, you—you big macho—cop!”
His hand pushed her head back against his shoulder. “Did you go to bed with des Baux?” he growled in her ear.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” she burst out. “I just had a nightmare!” She managed to pull away enough to glare at him. “Besides, I’m not going to go to bed with you, so you can just quit!”
“You’re in bed with me right now,” he reminded her. “I said, did you let des Baux make love to you?”
Sam bit her lip. He was right, she was in bed with Chip, and all she had on were her bikini panties. He was naked, and from the feel of that sleek body pressing against her, it was obvious he was very aroused. “Where are we?” she spluttered, looking around. “Is this a hotel room?”
“A flat in London.” He never took his black, glittering eyes from her face. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“You took my clothes off,” Sam quavered. “You’ve got a hell of a nerve, doing that!”
He lowered his head, running his warm, firm mouth gently along the side of her face, his lips brushing the corner of hers, then softly nibbling the graceful line of her chin. “Did you let that sonofabitch make love to you?” he repeated.
The feel of Chip’s hard, warm mouth, and the whisper of his breath against the sensitive shell of her ear sent a sh
udder of electricity vibrating through her body. “Ah—ah,” she breathed, distracted. “Ah—no, he couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t?” He raised his head to look down into her eyes. “Couldn’t what?”
Oh, why had she ever mentioned it? she thought, trapped under that probing stare. And why did she always blurt out the truth, anyway? “I—ah—you’d never understand how a person could make a mistake, would you?” she flared. “Besides, what business is it of yours? Let me go. I want to get out of this bed!”
He wouldn’t let her go. “Did des Baux have you?” he repeated.
“Oh, for pete’s sake, let me go! I wasn’t in love with him, and he had some sort of a—a problem from drugs, I think. It was a”—her voice slid down to a whisper—”a relief when he couldn’t ... do anything,” she added quickly before he could ask again.
He was still staring at her with narrowed eyes. His hands held her upper arms, holding her away from him slightly, and his grip on them tightened. “You mean you got into bed with des Baux, and the only reason nothing happened was that he was impotent?”
Sam turned her head away. “Well, no, I really didn’t want to go to bed with him.” She felt mortified thinking of that evening. “It’s—ah, difficult to explain, I mean, yes, but no. Actually—I just thought I did. Now, does that make you happy?”
“When did you think you were going to change your mind?” He sounded grim. “After he’d made love to you?”
“Yes—no! I don’t know!” She wished he would let go of her—her arms were hurting. “Anyway, I couldn’t let you make love to me anymore, could I?” she yelled. “It was getting out of hand!”
“Oh, was it?” His voice was deadly soft. “How was it getting out of hand, Samantha?”
“Because I can’t have anything going with you. It just messes me up! It makes me feel things I don’t want to!”
He waited a long moment and then said in the same grim tone, “I can’t get through to you, Samantha. You always have such a wall up that it’s hard to know what’s going on in that beautiful head of yours. But do you have any idea what it’s like to share you with another man when I’m making love to you? Or two? Or is it none at all, perhaps, not even me?” he said, suddenly shaking her impatiently. “Or is it whomever you want to conjure up in your stubborn mind?”
She looked up at him, startled. He knew about Jack, she was sure. And he’d always known about Alain des Baux. “That’s a crazy thing to say!”
“How was it getting out of hand, Samantha?” he asked again, softly.
“I told you!” She tried to push him away with both hands, but he yanked her to him. “Just like this, if you want to know. You see what you’re doing, don’t you? You don’t give me a chance! And I—uh, just go to pieces when I’m around you. I’ve worked too hard,” she cried, “to let this sort of thing happen to me. It’s stupid! I don’t want to be in love with you—I won’t!”
Horrified, Sam stared at him, realizing what she had said. Love. She didn’t know where she’d got that idea.
“I’m going to a hotel,” she yelled, starting to climb out of bed.
Powerful hands dragged her back. “No, you’re not. You’re going to stay right here.” He pulled her down beside him, his arms wrapped around her shoulders and waist, gripping her tightly. “I’ve worked too hard to let this sort of thing happen to me, too,” he murmured, his lips brushing her mouth. “I didn’t count on it either, Samantha. But I think I could get used to the idea. Now,” he said, settling himself comfortably against her, “tell me again that you go all to pieces.”
“Let go of me!” His hand was leisurely moving up her wrist to her elbow, his thumb caressing her racing pulse in stroking circles. She caught her breath when his forearm brushed the curve of her naked breast. “I don’t want anything to do with you, you big, s-sleazy h-hunk.”
“He didn’t want you, Samantha.” His fingers stroked her collarbone and then slowly descended to cover her breast. She felt her flesh go hard, her nipples contracting, and she gasped. “Des Baux took you off to Fontainebleau because they had to move the heroin. They were getting desperate. So was des Baux, poor sod, if he knew he couldn’t do anything when he got you there.”
“No, that’s not true,” she cried. She shuddered when his mouth explored the hollow in her throat tenderly. “He really wanted me, I know he did! He—uh, said he adored me.”
“Ah, hell, who wouldn’t adore you, love? You set me on fire.” His mouth was at the side of her face now, nuzzling her softly. “Samantha, I want you,” he muttered, “so much. I used to dream of you up in that apartment, all alone in that damned black bed and I couldn’t sleep for remembering what it was like, making love to you. Des Baux drove me crazy. I wish I’d known he was useless. It would have made life much easier.”
“You’re really rotten, saying things like that.” She moaned when he bent his head and ran his lips and tongue against the pouting curve of her breast. “He had a problem. You can’t make fun of him.”
But her fingers curled in his soft, springy hair and then her body arched up to him on a quivering, drawn breath. Slow liquid fire from the touch of his mouth ran through her veins, down her legs and into her swelling flesh. He was big and heavy and powerful, one arm under her holding her tightly so she couldn’t move, the other sliding under her arm, down her waist and over the curve of her hips. She felt her body writhe helplessly, following his touch.
“He was a damned drug dealer,” he murmured against her breast. “He deserved what he got.” He lifted his head, his black, glowing eyes close to hers. “Samantha, say you love me.”
“Are you crazy?” she breathed. Her body was trembling with desire. She slid one long leg against him, wanting to curl it over his sprawled legs, but she held back. “Why would I want to say that?”
“Then why are you here, in my arms?” he demanded. “You’re not the sort for a casual lay, Samantha. I know you better than that. It’s there in your eyes.”
“No, no, it’s just sex,” she groaned. “I-I’m attracted to rich, powerful men!”
She heard him laugh softly. “It’s wonderful to have someone as reluctant as you in my arms, darling. At least it’s totally honest. But you can’t deny me, can you?”
Sam abruptly lifted his hand away from her hip and slapped it down on his chest. “Now, listen, we both know how great you are, that you’re just so sexy you have to scrape crowds of women off your body all the time. But believe me, I can resist you!”
He let his hand stay where it was. “Crowds of women?” he said thoughtfully. “Ah, you mean Solange.”
She propped herself up on her elbow to glare at him. “And I’m a big attraction because I’m not exactly crazy about making a fool of myself over some—some international cop? Is that why you come on so strong to me?”
His hard face turned stony. “No, your big appeal, Samantha, is that I’m mad about arguing. And fighting. You’re the first woman who’s ever attacked me physically with intent to do me bodily harm rather than in a spirit of lust. That had its own peculiar charm, I admit.” When she opened her mouth in an O of outrage, he went on evenly, “I also find you cantankerous, confused, a snob easily led astray by specious displays of so-called aristocratic cultivation, more than a little self-deluding in a particularly American manner, clumsily ambitious and possibly vengeful. And you’re one of the most enchanting women I’ve ever seen. I’ve been randy as hell since I first set eyes on you.”
“Why, you bastard!” she cried, sitting up.
“Don’t hit me, Samantha,” he said quickly. “My side is hurting.”
She scowled at him. She supposed she could have felt something for Chip, given half a chance, except that he was so infuriating. He’d called her a snob led astray by, she supposed, Alain des Baux. And a self-deluding American. Then what in heaven’s name was she doing in bed with him?
Sam hesitated. The lines around Chip’s mouth and nose were deeply grooved, faintly pale. “Does it really h
urt?” she said reluctantly.
“Afraid so.” He grimaced. “Or I would have made love to you by now. Didn’t you notice?”
Sam frowned, then reached over him to pull back the sheet. The length of him, naked and splendidly virile, lay stretched out under her eyes. They had been talking about Alain des Baux and she couldn’t even remember what Alain looked like as she stared at Chip. Lord, he was sexy, she thought, confused.
“You’re not bleeding again, are you?” Her fingers touched the white gauze that was strapped with adhesive tape around his chest. The rusty stains were still dry. “I think I’d better call a doctor.”
His hand snaked out to close quickly around her wrist, holding her. “It’s just a cramp. Not important. On the other hand,” he said, the wicked gleam in his black eyes returning, “you could make love to me, Samantha. Would you want to do that?”
She jerked her hand away. “You see what I’m talking about? You’re really impossible!”
A slow, wicked smile accompanied the wicked gleam in his eyes. “I laid down my life for you, love,” he said huskily. “Quite literally on top of your luscious form, as I recall. I took the bullet and marble chips meant for you, sweetheart.” His hand slid around her waist, tugging her to him. “At least you could kiss me.”
She wished she could resist him, Sam thought, but he had this terrible power over her. She brushed the unruly curls back from his forehead with the tips of her fingers. “You’re such a snake,” she murmured. “You’re used to getting what you want from women, aren’t you?”
“Not always. Not what I want from you, at least.” His eyes were intense. “How about that kiss? Truce? Promissory note?”
She groaned, but she lowered herself down beside him again. He crooked a lazy arm around her neck and drew her to him, his body warm and hard against her. Sam lay quietly against his shoulder, thinking of what he’d said. “Why did you do that?” she said, finally. “Push me down on the floor and cover me when the shooting started?”
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