Craig’s head immediately whipped around the door, annoyance radiating from him even before he’d recognized the source of irritation. The source promptly vaulted in his general direction. “Hi,” she said simply, offering a secret wink for Mrs. Heath, and seconds later closed the door on John, Mrs. Heath and the rest of the world.
For at least an instant, she had one stunned husband on her hands. One had to take all the breaks one was offered in life. She stole a quick glance, only long enough to see what she already knew. Craig’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, there were hollows under his eyes, his hair looked as if his hands had run through it a dozen times that day, and his tie was askew. He looked, quite simply, exhausted. A man determined to drive himself too hard and too long.
“We’re going out to dinner,” she announced blithely. “I don’t want to hear any arguments. We’re going to drink a little wine, eat a very expensive steak…”
“Sonia? When on earth did you get here? How-?”
“At the Red Baron. We haven’t been there in ages. And if I were you, I wouldn’t put my hand anywhere near that briefcase, because you are definitely not taking it home tonight.” She spotted his suit jacket on the chair where he’d undoubtedly thrown it that morning. She moved to pick it up, then changed her mind. “This jacket is too hot,” she continued in the same brisk tone, “but we have to do a little something about your appearance before we go. Not much,” she assured him, with slightly more gentleness.
Her pulse was frantic as she approached him with quick steps, staring at his throat as she rebuttoned the collar of his shirt. His body was warm against her palm. Warm and still and tense. She tugged at his tie.
“I don’t want to hear any excuses,” she said severely. “If the whole place falls apart because you’re gone for a couple of hours, then it’s just going to have to fall apart. Mrs. Heath can order everyone around while you’re gone. She’s already agreed.” Sonia was having a terrible time with the tie, primarily because her fingers were all thumbs. She darted a quick glance up, to see how Craig was taking all the bossing.
She relaxed, her fingers suddenly managing the tie just fine. His weary eyes had a slight hint of exasperation, but his upper lip was twitching. “I get the idea I’m supposed to feel kidnapped,” he said mildly.
She stood back, hands on hips, pretending to make sure the tie was straight, knowing she couldn’t care less about the tie. “You’ll be lucky if you get off with a kidnapping,” she informed him.
“Now I’m really shaking in my shoes.”
She chuckled. Godzilla couldn’t make that man shake in his shoes, and Craig was just getting around to noticing her dress. Actually, he seemed to be noticing everything but the dress. She could feel the warmth of his gaze on her bare legs and bare throat and bare back as if it were the heat of the sun. Hurriedly, she picked up his jacket. “I’ll carry this.”
“Would you mind,” he asked gravely, “if I make a single phone call first?”
She shook her head. “Absolutely no phone calls. Any good kidnapping has to be pulled off clean. Give an inch and next thing you know the victim will be asking for ransom.”
“You sound quite experienced.”
“I started young in a life of crime.” She hesitated at the door, her tone abruptly, softly, Sonia again. “Craig, for heaven’s sake, if you really need to make a phone call-”
He made a swift motion toward the phone and then stopped, turning back to her. “It’ll wait,” he said gravely. “There’s no way I’m going to be late for my own kidnapping.” He opened the door.
***
The Red Baron was Cold Creek’s long-established hideaway for a nice seductive dinner. Candles set in red glass decorated every table; dark paneled walls and thick carpeting and tasteful oils on the walls added to a serenely luxurious atmosphere. A pocket-sized dance floor in the far corner included a pianist and bass player; the music was muted and low.
Craig glanced up as the busboy took their plates. When the man had gone, Craig watched Sonia lean over and tip a little more wine into his glass. That was his third, and she had barely touched her first.
At the moment, he was bone-weary, sated from an absolutely delicious dinner and utterly intrigued by the lady across from him. Sooner or later, he would figure out what she was up to.
The clues to the mystery were most interesting. The look of her would have seduced a monk, she’d chosen the most romantic place in town and she’d been plying him with wine. Furthermore, she’d set out to relax him over dinner as if it were her life’s purpose. The talk had all been simple and easy, her low, sweet laughter wafting toward him at intervals, her teasing sassy. He could smell her perfume; when she leaned toward him her bodice flirted with his eyes; and as she talked, those eyelashes of hers floated up and down with all the skill of a practiced flirt.
All those clues seemed conclusive. He hadn’t been fooled by her act from the time she’d excused herself for a second trip to the ladies’ room. Sonia was nervous. Those fluttering eyelashes shielded eyes that remarkably kept missing direct contact. All that subtly offered sexuality was a blind.
A blind that was working with aching intensity inside his bloodstream. He’d been aroused from the minute they sat down, and he hadn’t even touched her. She had shied away from his touch; her game was all in look and scent and the low, soothing melody of her voice.
Deprivation was doing strange things to his rational thinking processes. He wanted his wife. He also knew that the moment he tried to make love to her again, that living nightmare of his would be back. He’d tried working endless hours; he’d tried avoiding her; and he’d tried giving himself time. Nothing had worked. Guilt seeped into him like an insidious poison. There wasn’t even a ghost of a chance of allowing himself his own sexual release.
Only that same physical deprivation was starting to add up to a little mountain of agony. It was almost funny. His hormones hadn’t been this active when he was a teenager.
He listened to her laugh at something he said, a sparkle of wine glistening on her bottom lip, her aquamarine eyes glowing like melted jewels, and wondered vaguely what she would do if he took her outside, leaned her up against a building, slipped those smooth, silky skirts up…
“Do you want more coffee?” he asked calmly as the waiter hovered over them.
She shook her head.
He watched her eyes dart to the dance floor for the third time. She wouldn’t ask; she knew he was tired. Good. There was no way on earth he wanted to risk touching her at all. No sane man invited torture.
“Craig?” She parted her lips to say something. It was the third time she’d done that, yet again she seemed to change her mind about what she wanted to say. “Darn it. I suppose we should be going home,” she remarked lightly.
“Not quite yet.” He set his napkin down and stood up. “Not yet,” he murmured again. A pulse flickered dangerously in his neck as he motioned her toward the dance floor. Her delighted smile made something in his jaw tighten. His palm lightly brushed the small of her back as he guided her around tables, so lightly that his fingertips only barely burned from the contact of the cool, silky fabric of her dress.
He meant to keep her at arm’s length when they were on the dance floor. The song was a love song, but not a favorite, unfamiliar, nothing that stirred any nostalgic, suggestive longings. He turned her to him and raised his hand simply to take hers…and instead found that damned errant hand sliding up her bare arm to her neck. And then the other one, just as damned, gliding around to the bare flesh of her back.
Sonia started and then ever so naturally moved in to him, her arms wrapping loosely around his waist, her cheek tucked into the curve of his shoulder. She made a small contented sound like the purr of a kitten as they moved in a gentle sway around the dance floor.
The first song ended, and another started. From nowhere, she suddenly lifted her head, her hooded blue-green eyes studying him. “Craig?”
“Hmm?”
“
Nothing.” Her eyelashes rushed back down. “This feels good. We haven’t danced in forever.”
His lips pressed lightly on her forehead. “I think you’d better get around to telling me,” he whispered.
“Telling you what?”
“Whatever it is that’s been bothering you.”
She lifted her head again, her eyes suddenly flashing with amused exasperation. She hated it when he outthought her. “Nothing’s bothering me.”
His hands slid down her back in a slow caress, taking in her warm, smooth skin beneath the silky straps of her dress, taking in the shape of her spine and that narrow tapering at her waist. His voice was seductively gentle. “You wrecked the car.”
“Of course not!” Her head whipped back again, this time most indignantly.
His lips found the tip of her nose. “You gave the state trooper a merry chase on the highway again.”
“I haven’t had a ticket in over two years,” she reminded him.
“That you confessed to.”
“That I-there was only one other one,” she said irritably. “How did you-”
“So it isn’t that. You’ve overcharged on every account we have, and we’re both going to the poorhouse?”
She couldn’t help chuckling at his off-the-wall guesses. The pianist switched tunes, and she nuzzled her face close to Craig’s cheek, her arms moving up and around him where her fingers could reach the curling hair at the nape of his neck.
“Sonia…” he warned teasingly.
“Yes.” She sighed. “The thing is, what do you think about the Gulf of Mexico?”
“Pardon?”
“The Gulf of Mexico.”
“I think it’s a very nice body of water,” he said blandly, but when he tried to tilt his head to take a curious look at her, her cheek stayed molded to his shoulder.
“I like it, too,” she remarked.
“That’s nice.”
“What do you think about boats?”
“Does this conversation strike you as a little unusual, or is it me?”
“I like boats, myself,” Sonia continued stubbornly.
“I like boats, too. I suppose. Both of us having lived most of our lives in Wyoming, boats have just never been given a high priority.”
“You’ve been fishing with my dad up in the mountains,” she reminded him quickly. “You liked that boat.”
“Yes,” Craig agreed wryly. “I’m extremely fond of rowboats.”
“And big boats aren’t very different from little boats. They both float, for instance. Actually, big boats can be very easy to run.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s so.” Sonia took a huge breath. “I’ve found one that’s very easy to run. In the Gulf of Mexico. For four days. Starting Sunday.” One of them suddenly wasn’t dancing, but Sonia stayed firmly entrenched within the relative safety of his arms until he recovered a little from the shock. “I had to think of something to give you for our anniversary…”
“Our anniversary is six months away.”
“I’ve never remembered dates well,” she reminded him.
“Sonia,” he growled impatiently into her temple.
“It’s called a tri-cabin cruiser. A baby could run it, the man said. Everything’s taken care of-transportation, tickets, insurance. I talked to Mrs. Heath-she said next week wouldn’t be a bad time for you to leave. Charlie, by the grace of God, doesn’t mind taking care of things-”
“You’ve had one hell of a busy week,” he said abruptly.
“A little,” she agreed demurely. She’d only stopped panting that afternoon.
Her husband was silent for a time. The second love song stretched to a third one, a ballad about love and loss and tender memories. About the time of the second refrain, some of the stiffness seemed most unwillingly to rush from his body; he gathered her close again. His fingertips glided up and down, up and down, over her back in the rhythm of caress, the rhythm of intimacy.
She could feel the sway of her skirts against him and the softness of her breasts against his chest…and the arousal he was no longer trying to hide from her. Even massive shocks, she noted, had not appreciably affected the size or heat of that arousal. Through two layers of clothes, she could clearly feel him.
One of his hands strayed down to her hips, and lingered. She waited. His hand slipped back up to more appropriate territory, but after a time she heard the breath hiss from his lungs.
“You’re not wearing a damn thing under that dress,” he whispered in her ear.
“No,” she admitted. Dancing eyes suddenly peered up at him. “It was part of the campaign to distract you, so you would say yes,” she commented demurely. “Are you distracted?”
“Have you considered what it would look like if I dragged you down in the middle of this dance floor?”
Lord, he was suddenly restless. His voice was a low-pitched growl in her ear. He was moving to the rhythm of some song that certainly wasn’t what the pianist was playing. Craig’s song was infinitely slower, one about possession and fierce, swift loving. Sonia didn’t know the words, but she knew well the music of his body and understood in every feminine bone in her body the tempo his heartbeat was picking up.
“Are we going?” she whispered finally.
She studied the play of emotions on his face with an anxious feeling of waiting inside. He didn’t want to go; she knew that. He was looking for a way to say no to her. She could almost see him cataloging the problems in his head, from his work to the ranch, from timing to expense. Those, she knew, could be worked out.
She also knew he had never refused her anything that she had really wanted. And that, in the end, was what would make the difference, weigh in the balance against whatever reasons he really had for not wanting to be alone with her.
Her fingertips grazed his jawline, her soft eyes searching his, the frivolity gone. “It’s all right either way, Craig,” she said softly. “I just…love you. All I wanted was some special time with you, but if we absolutely can’t…”
There was so much tension in his face, a jagged, taut anxiety set in proud lines. And in the layer under that, she could not mistake the searing depth of sheer, rich love in his eyes. “So,” he said quietly, “what time did you say the plane leaves on Sunday?”
***
Craig jerked the pillow behind him and leaned up against it, tossing his trade magazine on the floor. Sonia was in the bathroom. He could hear her brushing her teeth.
He’d come home fully expecting Sonia to strip to the buff from her wanton white dress. She had, but out of sight in the bathroom. She’d appeared moments later in some granny nightgown he’d never seen before, and disappeared again. The next time her head darted around the door, there were gobs of white cream all over her face. Once he’d gotten a good look at that, she’d vanished again.
She’d been chattering about the trip to the Gulf the entire time, but the message that his lady had withdrawn from her irresistible-wench mood was unmistakable. She’d never before put white gunk on her face, and that blasted nightgown had come out of some attic.
In one sense he was amused, and perhaps even relieved she was…out of the mood. In another sense, he felt more restless than a hungry cougar on the prowl. His own problems were not Sonia’s, and he’d had every intention of taking up her sexual challenge. He did not understand her mercurial mood. Her taking off the dress in the bathroom amounted to cruel and unusual punishment, and his own head seemed to be in so many confused places at once that, disgusted, he picked up the magazine yet a third time.
Sonia, yawning, stepped out of the bathroom, this time flicking off the light, her hair brushed and her face clean and soft under the lamplight. “Must have been that wine at dinner, but I am unbelievably sleepy. You must be, too, after all the hours you’ve put in this week.”
“A little,” he agreed.
She slipped between the sheets next to him. He immediately turned off the light, tossed aside the magazine and slid down ne
xt to her. Automatically, he tucked the sheet around her chin and then, beneath the covers, reached across her side, her signal to turn over and move in closer, the way she always liked to sleep.
She didn’t move.
He didn’t really pay much attention. A silent yawn rumbled from his lips; the week’s exhaustion was taking its toll. Instinctively, his arm slid around her again, but instead of rolling over, she flopped on her stomach, her face turned to the far wall. He stiffened. Sonia never broke her sleep patterns; he couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t fallen asleep in the same way. For himself, he could crash anywhere and anytime. It was his wife who couldn’t fall asleep unless she was tucked and curled and cuddled exactly just so.
He listened, hearing the sound of her even breathing. Carefully, silently and a little stubbornly, he shifted both of them. Her body was limp; she murmured something but didn’t stir. It took a few moments, because he really didn’t want to wake her, but in time he had it right again. Her leg was tucked between his, her cheek in his shoulder, his arm protectively curled around her, resting on her thigh. Finally, his eyes closed.
Sonia’s opened, facing the wall of his chest, her body as supple as grass in the wind, her mind racing at full speed. Her husband was finally asleep. He didn’t know what was going on yet, but he would.
We have a marriage here, Mr. Hamilton, which means sacrifices are occasionally required, she told him silently. That goes for both of us. Because if you’re giving up sex, buster, then so am I.
Chapter 11
Mr. Bartholomew grinned at them from the dock. “Have a wonderful time, you two! Any problems, you just give me a little ship-to-shore,” he called over the rising roar of the engine.
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