by Sandra Brown
“Oh, Terry,” Megan exclaimed, but it was Josh's thigh her hand found and squeezed hard in her excitement. “It's like something out of Gone With the Wind.”
Terry beamed, evidently pleased with her delight. On either side of the road behind the trees stretched acres of emerald golf greens. Bridle paths ribboned the otherwise untouched woods beyond. Megan felt overwhelmed, trying to take it all in. Seascape's main building was another delightful surprise. The sprawling complex was built almost exclusively of glass and wood, and it blended harmoniously with is woodland setting.
“It's wonderful, Terry,” she said, stepping out of the limousine, which had come to a stop in front of wide glass doors. “Absolutely perfect. I don't know what I expected, but this surpasses it.”
“Come inside.”
Well-trained bellmen, athletic men for the most part, scurried to get people checked into their bungalows with the least inconvenience. Most guests were conveyed to their cottages in golf carts.
“I've already assigned you to a building, so I'll just get the keys and send you on your way,” Terry said hospitably.
Megan nodded absently. She was gaping at the lobby like a country bumpkin in the city for the first time. What impressed her most was that none of the decor was gaudy or inhibiting. Even amidst the luxury, she sensed a homey, comfortable atmosphere.
“Look, Josh.” Unthinkingly she took his hand and turned him in the direction of an indoor waterfall, which tumbled over carefully arranged railroad ties and natural stone into a sparkling fountain. Flowers of every species and color surrounded it like a blooming picture frame.
He put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close to his side. “Glad you came?” he asked into her hair.
Forgetting all about her devious plans, past heartaches, and hopes for retribution, she looked up at him with undisguised pleasure and answered honestly, “Yes.”
“This is Greg,” Terry said from behind them. They turned to face a college-aged young man with American good looks who was smiling in a friendly fashion. “He'll take care of you. May Gayla and I count on the two of you to join us for dinner?”
Josh consulted Megan by raising a questioning eyebrow. She nodded imperceptibly. “Yes, thank you. We'll look forward to it,” he said for both of them.
Terry was summoned to the check-in desk, which was swarming with arriving guests and hustling employees. He waved them off, entrusting them to Greg's good care. Greg drove them through the paved paths of the complex toward the bungalow where they bad been assigned rooms. Once away from the busy main building, Megan could only appreciate the serenity of the resort. As they cruised along tree-shrouded paths, the placidity was broken only by Greg's livery chatter.
“The swimming pools are through there. One is heated, the other isn't. That building houses the health club. There are exercise rooms for both men and women, showers, steam rooms, saunas, you name it. To get to the tennis courts, take the sidewalks marked with signs showing little tennis rackets.”
“I don't know if I'll ever find my way around, but I'll have fun trying,” Megan said. She was becoming uncomfortably aware that they were getting farther and farther from the central group of buildings. “How many rooms make up a bungalow?” she asked casually, hoping that her weak voice didn't give her uneasiness away. She could feel Josh's eyes roving over her face.
“Four,” Greg said.
“Four,” she repeated as though mulling over a vital piece of information.
“Yeah, but only the two you're in will be occupied this weekend.”
Megan's mouth went dry. She dared not look at Josh.
Greg pulled to a stop outside the bungalow, which Megan decided was misnamed. “Cottage” couldn't begin to describe the enchanting quadraplex of apartments.
“Mrs. Lambert,” Greg said, opening one door with a key and a flourish before standing aside. She went into the suite, which was decorated in blue, beige, and peach. From the bathroom, with its sunken tub, to the bedroom, with the king-sized bed and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlantic, no detail had been overlooked. As soon as Greg had pointed out some of the more unique amenities and deposited her two bags in the dressing room, he left to show Josh to his adjacent apartment.
Left alone, Megan walked to the wide windows and opened the sheer curtains. A broad expanse of lawn extended from a private terrace outfitted with comfortable patio furniture. The grass was strewn with pine needles, which had fallen from the trees that separated her “yard” from the white beach.
It was a place made for lovers, a setting to appeal to all the senses, and she knew that if she weren't careful she would be doomed by this scheme of her own making.
As though her mind had conjured up his image, Josh was suddenly standing on her terrace, having walked around the wall separating it from his. Without thinking, she unlocked the sliding glass door, and he stepped inside.
“Forgive me for using the back door,” he said. He didn't smile. His eyes were busy cataloging each feature of her face.
“That's all right. How's your room?” she asked on a thread of breath.
“Empty.”
They came together in a sudden rush of movement. His mouth clamped over hers, while his hands scaled her back. A rowdy tongue destroyed her logic as it investigated her mouth with undeterred purpose.
“For once we're alone in a private place. There's no one to interfere. I don't want anything between us,” he breathed against her neck as he divested her of the white jacket.
With no resistance from her, he walked them toward the bed. When they fell upon the quilted spread, her arms were looped around his neck, her hands in his hair as grasping and eager as his. He covered her only partially, giving himself space to explore.
With more discipline than she could credit herself with at the moment, he pulled the silk shell from the waistband of her slacks. The skin of his palm sliding over her ribs set every nerve in her body into bedlam. When his hand closed over her breast, she arched her back and cried his name softly against his lips.
“I've never forgotten how you feel.” He took pleasure in her full breasts, which swelled over the lacy cup of her bra. His hand rotated over her slowly until her budding desire was cupped in the center of his palm. “Megan,” he said hoarsely, “unbutton my shirt Touch me before I die.”
Her willing, anxious, eager fingers complied. She combed through the fine hair spread over the hard muscles and ribs. His breath stilled, then was expelled on an anguished moan. “Yes, yes,” he growled before welding his lips to hers again.
The front clasp of her bra fell away. Like a blind man, he educated his fingers to the feel of her. The softly rising mounds, smooth flesh, and delicate peaks were stroked, petted, smoothed, teased by his curious fingers, which demanded to know all of her. He enticed her nipples to heightened passion with his skillful thumb.
“Josh, Josh,” she whispered.
His other hand fumbled with the button and zipper of her slacks. As if ready to do his bidding, they came undone. The swathe of lace in the shape of panties provided little barrier to his sweet exploration. And then he was there, touching her, exciting her, arousing her with an undaunted intimacy that she knew should be forbidden, but which she couldn't deny him or herself.
It wasn't until he began to grapple with the zipper of his trousers and she felt the weight of his body lowering onto hers that she realized with stark clarity what would happen next.
She panicked.
It wasn't time. She hadn't set her ruse up properly. She had never meant it to go this far.
She began to struggle, and he ceased his movements immediately. “Megan?” he asked tenderly. “Megan, what is it? What's the matter?”
She groped for a plausible excuse why they couldn't make love right then. She said the first thing that popped into her mind. “James. I … we're betraying James.”
Six
There was only a heartbeat between the gentle kisses he had been planting on her for
ehead and the abrupt rising of his head. She had succeeded in jarring him out of his passionate daze. That it was taxing his willpower in the extreme was evidenced by his rapid, ragged breathing.
She knew he was looking at her, willing her to open her eyes, but she couldn't risk letting him see the truth—that she regretted calling a halt as much as he did. Instead she squeezed her eyes shut, until twin tears eked out from beneath her has and rolled down her cheeks.
He raised himself off her and left the bed. The quiet rasp of his zipper being refastened in the silent room was as obnoxious as fingernails raking down a blackboard.
For a long while Megan lay perfectly still on her back, with her eyes closed. She wished he would just leave without saying anything. Her greatest desire was to curl into a ball, to bury herself, to wallow in regret. She regretted ever having met him, danced with him, kissed him the night before she got married.
She regretted ever having consented to come here. If she'd been more adamant, Doug wouldn't have forced her to come. He knew how stubborn she could be. She could have worn him down by insisting she simply had too much work to do.
And she regretted … No! She wouldn't regret not making love to Josh. It was too dangerous to speculate on what it would have been like. The mere thought of it made her shiver.
“Megan, are you all right?”
“Yes, I'm all right.” She rolled her head to the side and opened her eyes. He was sitting in a chair near the bed, looking earnestly at her. She knew she was a mess, that her eyes were red and her cheeks streaked from tears.
It was strange about those tears. Where had they come from? Their source frightened her, but she couldn't think about that now. If she examined it too closely, she might crawl onto Josh's lap and beg him to continue what they had begun. No, don't think about the loss you feel, Megan, she cautioned herself. “I'm sorry,” she said aloud.
His knees were spread wide, where he sat leaning forward in the chair. Elbows on knees, his chin was propped on his fists as he studied her. “So am I.”
She sat up slowly, closing the placket on her slacks as unobtrusively as possible. “I … I didn't know I'd feel that way until …”
When her voice faded away, he said understandingly, “You don't have to justify that feeling to me or to anyone. I know there hasn't been another man since James. I'm glad. From now on I'm going to be the only man in your life.” His softly spoken words and the indulgence with which he was looking at her made her unaccountably angry.
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, Josh,” she said caustically. “I'm old-fashioned and not at all sophisticated when it comes to sex. If you wanted a playmate for afternoon romps, you brought the wrong woman, though I'm sure I can be replaced quickly enough.” She vaulted off the bed and stalked over to the dresser, opened her handbag, and took out a hairbrush. She managed to drag it through her hair several times before it was caught and wrenched from her hand.
He lay the hairbrush aside and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I like the fact that you're principled— I prefer that word to old-fashioned—when it comes to sex.”
“Only because I'm a novelty, compared to what you're used to. I don't know how to play these bedroom —games. As far as I know, James was faithful to me even when he traveled. I was faithful to him. I can't help but feel cheap and dirty and guilty about … about sleeping with someone else.”
“After three years!” he yelled, finally giving vent to his temper. “Megan, for goodness’ sake, you're not cheating on James. You're still very much alive, and you need a man to complement the woman you are.” His hands closed around her neck; his thumbs massaged her collarbone beneath the silk blouse. “You need me.”
When he touched her, she couldn't think. She had no comeback to this ridiculous argument anyway. She had thought it up only a few moments ago. What affected her more than she wanted to acknowledge was his willingness to try to understand her hesitation. Why wasn't he reacting violently to their thwarted love-making, tearing at her clothes in a lust-driven rage, making vile threats to get rough if she didn't come around?
His compassion would squelch her primary goal if she didn't fight it. Throwing off his hands, she cried out, “I loved my husband!” At least the desperation in her voice was genuine.
“I've no doubt you did,” he said with a trace of annoyance. “Anyone who knew James liked him. He was a likable, lovable guy.”
“You make him sound like a teddy bear or a puppy,” she said indignantly. “You don't hold a patent on sex appeal, you know. James was a man, and I loved him as such.”
The ticking muscle in his jaw testified to his suppressed anger. His lips barely moved when he asked, “Did you?”
“Yes.”
“But if we had had more time—if we had met a month before instead of the night before your wedding—he might never have been your husband.”
“Oh!” She clenched her fists at her sides. “You conceited, arrogant ass! One stolen kiss in the moonlight and you think I was ready to sacrifice everything for you. Well, I didn't, did I?”
“You were too stubborn then, just as you are now, to admit that you were making a mistake by marrying James after we had met.”
Her chest hurt with pent-up emotion. His words came too close to the truth, and she dug in all the deeper to defend herself. “I'd had too much champagne.”
He laughed harshly. “So now you've going to place the blame on being drunk.” His voice dropped to a deceptively soft tone. “You kissed me, Megan, and that kiss forever changed how you felt about James, or yourself for that matter. Deny it all you want—to yourself, to me, to the world. You'd like to believe that that kiss didn't mean anything to you, but it damn well did. You know it, and so do I.”
She was too enraged to speak. She stood facing him, her spine and arms rigid, her chin tilted up in defiance.
“Now, despite the rough spots that we have yet to iron out between us, I think you can see the advantages of keeping our problems to ourselves. So get your cute little rear end in that sinfully opulent bathtub and relax with a warm bath or take a cold shower and cool off your abominable temper. I'll pick you up in an hour and a half for our dinner with the Bishops, and you'd better be sparkling with good humor.”
Megan was still seething with impotent fury when he left through the terrace door.
“You fool!” she cursed herself as she heeded his unasked-for advice and stood under the pulsing cold spray of the shower. She'd had the perfect opportunity to play the frightened, insecure female and she'd blown it. She could have had him in the palm of her hand, mistakenly thinking she was his.
If only she'd played up the part about feeling guilty, needing coddling and reassurance, he would have been as malleable as putty. Instead, stubborn and volatile as she was, she had succeeded only in raising his ire.
“I've got to pay more attention to the role I'm playing,” she reminded herself as she applied her evening makeup. “Abominable temper,” she spat, flinging an eyebrow pencil onto the marble dressing table. And how had he known that the bathtub in her suite was sinfully opulent?
As she dressed she reiterated her reasons for despising him, so that they would be clear in her mind. “Submission, Megan, submission. Be feminine. Flirtatious. Unopinionated,” she muttered as she buckled the narrow strap of her sandal around her ankle.
She surveyed herself critically in the mirror. “Not bad,” she commented. Turning sideways, she sighed dispiritedly. “A little more bosom wouldn't hurt.”
She'd chosen her dress because of its sensuous fabric and unusual design. It was a subdued white crepe de chine. The dress had a draped bodice front and back, which was barely tacked together at the shoulders, leaving most of her shoulders and all of her arms bare. The front dipped low but only hinted at what lay beneath the silky cloth. The full skirt swirled around her knees.
She pulled her hair back into a bun low on the nape of her neck and all but covered it with a silk camelia with green satin leaves. Diamond s
tuds adorned her ears.
Ready well before the appointed time, she gathered her crocheted shawl and beaded evening bag and paced nervously, rehearsing what she would say and do and wondering if, when the time came, she'd have the nerve to say and do them.
Josh knocked on the front door.
Licking her lips anxiously, she crossed the room, her knees rubbery. She kept her eyes lowered for several seconds after drawing the door toward her. Then slowly, hoping she looked provocative, she lifted her lashes and looked up at him penitently.
“You had every right to stand me up.”
She could tell by the quirking of his eloquent eyebrow that her contrition had taken him by surprise. Apparently he had thought she would still be hostile and explosive. That he looked devastatingly handsome in his dark summer-weight suit and pristine white shirt almost dissipated her anger totally.
She wet her lips again, this time deliberately. “Josh, I'm sorry about this afternoon. I—I wasn't ready for something like that to happen so soon.” That, at least, was the truth. “I didn't know how to act, what to do.”
He drew her close and pressed her head onto his chest. “Forgive me for coming on like an adolescent maniac. I bungled it, not you.”
“No. I behaved stupidly, immaturely. I thought I was ready for … it. I guess I'm not. Not yet.”
“I shouldn't have rushed you. You've barely had time to readjust your thinking about me, about us. Forgive my impatience. It's just that I've waited so long for you.”
As he spoke, his mouth wandered along her hairline. Now he tilted her face up to his. He kissed her softly, barely applying pressure to her lips, but being thoroughly intimate with his tongue, which entered the sweet hollow of her mouth. A laser of desire beamed through her body, touching each vital organ, the tips of her breasts, the center of her womanhood.
A yearning so strong that she had no choice but to obey it seized her, and her arms came around his neck. She recalled how it felt to lie with him, his body hard and demanding, hers soft and yielding. Wantonly, she rubbed against the tightness in his loins.