“Oh!” she murmured, dismayed. “Sorry …”
A little blindly she reached for one of the dinner napkins and made tentative sopping motions on his chest. And she felt his bare flesh, hot like fire, smooth and sleek. She was very close, and suddenly she was looking up into his eyes.
She trembled, horribly aware that there was something there, something in the way that he looked at her, something in the way that he could make her feel. It was as if he could see her naked, as if he could put his arms around her, and she would, come, fitting nicely, because she had been there before. It wasn’t a leer. It was just a look that knew … and though it bore remnants of anger, it also bore tenderness, and something so intimately sexual that she might have sworn she had known him a long, long time; that they had been both friends and lovers for ages….
“Your hair,” he murmured, and he touched her, lifting her hair over her shoulder, smoothing it down her back, his eyes holding hers all the while. “The beer … you were getting beer on it.”
And he was getting his fingers tangled into it. It was a web of silk, of seduction.
“It’s—it’s good for hair, I hear,” Katrina heard herself mumble. “I have to wash it anyway.” She blinked and backed away. It was the only way to break the spell.
Jason walked into the room while Mike was still drying himself off. “Looks great. I love grilled cheese,” Jason said. “Too bad we don’t have hurricanes more often.”
“Don’t say that,” Katrina told him. “This storm is going to devastate a lot of people. The damage to docks and boats and homes and maybe even roads is going to be horrible.”
“I know.” Jason sighed. “I don’t want that to happen—I just like grilled cheese.”
“I rather like them myself,” Mike said. He handed Katrina a fresh can of beer. Their eyes met just briefly before they both took their separate seats on either side of Jason.
And dinner went nicely. Jason talked about how much fun it was to come and go from school by boat; Mike told him a little about the ships on which he had served.
It was during that conversation that she learned that the Maggie Mae hadn’t been a military vessel, that she had been his own.
“Gee, what a shame!” Jason said to him. “Man, it’s too bad she got all wrecked.”
Mike shrugged. “The Maggie Mae can be replaced. Human life can’t. We all got off safely, which is what counts.”
Katrina played with them that night—a rousing game of “Hungry, Hungry Hippos.” She was amazed that the rather silly game didn’t seem to bother Mike in the least. Somehow, it was hard to imagine that the same man who commanded ships and spent hours in a laboratory could stretch out on a floor and enjoy trying to capture little balls in the mouth of a plastic hippopotamus.
She was somewhat nervous—and somewhat relieved—when Jason yawned and announced that he was going to bed. Even if there was something resembling a truce between herself and Mike, she meant to talk to him.
She kissed and hugged Jason, who then said good-night to Mike with a handshake and a look that seemed to hold a secret meaning. Katrina ignored it. She waited until Jason’s door was closed, until she was quite certain that he was in bed and drifting off, before she started to talk.
He was standing near the mantel. She was still on the floor, stretched out by the game board, propped up on one elbow.
“We need to talk.”
“About the squirrels?”
“Yes. I want to know more about that drug!”
He walked around and sat across the board from her, legs crossed Indian style, his fingers lightly folded before him as he leaned toward her.
“Why?”
“Why?” she asked with amazement. “Because I have an eight-year-old son, and there are animals copulating all over my property!”
“That’s nature, Katrina.”
“The hell it is! What—”
“What you really want to know is what effect the drug had on you, isn’t it?”
It seemed that there was a taunt to his voice; and it had been exactly what she was worrying about, wondering about. She felt herself turn red; she longed to lash out and slap him. But he seemed to guess her intention, and before she could move, the little balls from the Hungry, Hungry Hippos game were suddenly streaking all across the tile, and she was on her back, with him straddled over her, carefully, warily holding her wrists to her side.
“Get off of me!”
“Un-unh. You’re dangerous.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“Well, I’m going to be a whole bunch more so if you—”
She broke off. She didn’t want him looking at her so intently. She didn’t want to feel the heat of his thighs around her, or the strength of his hands wound around her wrists, feeling the race of her pulse. She didn’t want to stare up at his chest, gleaming in the candlelight, or into his eyes, strange as smoke, or see the rueful twist of his lips, a smile that managed to be both threatening and amused and richly sensual.
“You were an angel, Mrs. Denver,” he told her. “You slept like a log.”
“Then why—why”—she closed her eyes, then opened them again—“why was I—”
“Naked?”
“Yes, Captain Taylor,” she drawled sarcastically. “That is the word.”
He laughed and shrugged. “Honestly, I must have dozed off. I don’t know exactly when you removed it.” He was being sincere; she believed him. But then his voice changed. “Maybe you were—hot.”
“You—”
“Behave, Mrs. Denver!” he warned, his fingers tightening around her wrists.
She pursed her lips together and managed to kick him in the back with her heel. Her position was so twisted that she couldn’t have caused him much harm. She only seemed to amuse him.
Amuse him—and set him into motion, rolling, coming back into a position where his legs pinned hers, where his fingers twined with hers, where his torso, his face, came to just a breath above her own.
She knew that it was coming long before it did. It was a moment forever ingrained in her mind in which his smile slowly faded, and the lazy smoke filled his eyes as he drank in hers. She was barely aware that his fingers left hers; keenly aware that they caressed her cheek, held her chin. She felt his lips, even before they touched hers, knew that they would be firm, that they would savor and caress, would not accept denial, would be tender and persuasive, then burst to fire. He knew her lips, parted them, tasted the texture of her teeth, and delved all the warm secrets beyond. Her heartbeat merged with his in the sweet fever of their mouths, in the wonderful pressure of his body that was so achingly good against hers.
She was afraid to trust him; she couldn’t help but do so. Her fingers slid into the hair at his nape, his caressed her cheek and wound to her shoulder, pulling her closer. He moved away from her slightly, his breath still warm against her, his eyes a question, gentle, tender and strong, on hers.
“You’re beautiful,” he told her huskily. “I think I—”
“No!” she cried suddenly, savagely. Because that was when her eyes left his—and fell on the photo on the mantel.
James. She was making a mockery of what they had shared. All the years she had lived on memories, and now, in two days, she was ready and willing and eager! to be with another man!
She was ready to fight him with fury, but she didn’t have to. He had rolled away, was gone already, standing with his back to her, staring at the portrait.
“He’s dead,” he told her flatly. Then he spun around, hunched down on one knee, taking her hands and bringing her up. “And since you’re so concerned about animals, Mrs. Denver, I should remind you that the human being is one. Flesh and blood and instinct and raw nerves, but more too. Much more. Memory and thought and feeling. More than any cat of the jungle, any snake, any predator, a human is an animal to be handled carefully. Don’t tread on instinct, Mrs. Denver, and don’t tread on emotion. It’s a dangerous thing to do, becau
se the most gentle of beasts can be provoked into rage.”
“I didn’t provoke you into anything! I—”
“You kissed me back. You almost, almost, came to life. But you don’t want that, do you? You think that by being self-sacrificing you can make up for the fact that you’re not dead. The lowest animal knows, Mrs. Denver, that that isn’t God’s way, or nature’s.”
“Let me go! I’m not an animal! I’m not a subject for you to study and analyze! Let me—”
“Run, Mrs. Denver? You can’t run from life—or from emotion. But if you’re so determined, by all means go ahead. I won’t stop you.”
She did run. Literally. And she didn’t stop until she was in her bedroom, with the door closed and locked.
CHAPTER SIX
HER HEART WOULD NOT stop racing; nor would her ragged breathing cease.
She stood at her door awhile, simply feeling. She realized suddenly—or perhaps not so suddenly—that running was not what she had wanted to do at all. She realized that she wanted him, wanted to respond to him, wanted to overcome the guilt and confusion and just touch, and be touched, and …
No! She left the door, scrambled blindly in the top drawer of her dresser, and found a flashlight. A shower would be nice. A cold shower, to remind her that this was not reality, that gentle pink clouds could only embrace one in dreams, that surely, real love happened only once in a lifetime.
The flashlight led her to the bathroom. She shed her jeans and T-shirt and climbed into the stall, glad of the cold, glad of the shocking punishment against her heated flesh. And she stayed there, scrubbing herself over and over again with the bar of soap.
At last she turned the water off. She could hear the wind then, louder than it had seemed during the day. She toweled herself dry with the same heated energy with which she had washed.
And it was then that she paused. She noticed that her skin smelled of the soap: clean, with just a touch of perfume. It made her feel very sleek and feminine, just like a woman who was awaiting a lover.
Lover. What a funny word. She’d never had a “lover,” only a husband she had loved, a husband who was gone. She was alone now, and she needed to be held. She wanted to explore the man in the next room, who had fascinated her from the very first with his silver eyes, and filled her dreams. And she saw it all again: going to him, entering his room, his arms coming out to her.
He wanted her. Surely, he wanted her. He had kissed her, held her, and only her scream of denial and fury had broken them apart. It could happen; she could just go to him, embrace the darkness, touch him, and feel his touch.
A burst of agony and doubt swept through her then. But she was already moving. Her palms were drenched; she wiped them on the towel she had knotted around herself. The agony, the doubt, stayed with her. In the fantasy she could see herself walking, she could see his arms, but nothing more. She didn’t know how to seduce, how to cajole, how to be sultry. It had been too long.
But still, she was moving. Her heart was pounding like a storm.
Her hand was on the doorknob, and then the door was open. The house was dark; the only light was from a flashlight that had been left standing on the coffee table.
She took a step, then another, and another, her bare feet touching the cool tiles.
Right before she reached his door, she panicked. What if he had locked it?
But his door wasn’t locked. Her face tightened into a mask of pain as her fingers faltered upon it. Open it! she commanded herself.
At last she did; the door swung inward. More darkness greeted her, more and more. Her feet no longer wanted to move, but they did, step after slow, silent step. She could just make out the shape of the bed and the shape of his body beneath the sheets.
And then she was standing over him, and somehow, she knew that he was awake, that he was half sitting up, that he was watching her, and that he saw far more in the dark than she did.
A small sound escaped her; she wanted to run again as his hand came out of the darkness and his fingers wound around her wrist.
“Good evening, Mrs. Denver.”
He wasn’t supposed to speak.
“I—I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“The hell you did. You came to make love.”
She wanted to die. Or fall to the floor and crawl away.
She could do neither; he was up and next to her and she felt the entire naked length of his body as he swept her into his arms, then down to the bed. In the darkness she could see the silver glow of his eyes and feel the tension that hardened the fine lines of his face into a taut mask.
“I’m not your husband, Mrs. Denver,” he told her bluntly.
“Please—”
“Not this time, Mrs. Denver.”
She felt his hand, tugging at the knot of her towel. The towel fell away; then she felt his fingers again on her cheek, moving between her breasts, stroking her stomach with velvet tenderness.
“I’m more than willing to play stud service for you, Mrs. Denver,” he said so softly that it took seconds for her mesmerized mind to react, for her body to tense, for her hands to lash out to push him away. He didn’t appear to notice; his leg was locked over hers, his manhood, hard and alive with a vibrant pulse, touched her thigh. His hands caught hers easily, drew them together, held them as the warm and arousing touch of his lips played over her forehead, against the lobe of her ear, the static pulse at the base of her throat.
“More than willing. But there will be some honesty in the situation.”
Suddenly, he was gone from her. She heard the strike of a match, saw a flare in the night. She closed her eyes with absolute horror, aware that he had lit the candle by his bed and that the glow fell upon her.
She had entered the lion’s den, and the lion had no intention of letting her loose.
His arm clamped around her waist; he held her there, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“I didn’t want—light!” she managed to choke out, and he smiled, a little grimly.
“Ah! Honesty.”
“All right! I came to—I came to you, but I changed my mind—”
“Too late.”
“Jason! My son is—”
“Sound asleep, Katrina. I checked on him, Katrina. His door is closed—as is this one. You can’t hide behind him now.”
She lowered her head and moaned softly. Tears suddenly filled her eyes, but he ignored them, gently forcing her back down to the sheets. She closed her eyes, aware that if she opened them, she would see him studying her in the candle glow from head to toe.
His fingers were on her again, caressing her the way his eyes were caressing her, curving softly around her breasts, grazing her nipples to taut peaks, rubbing over her belly and then her thighs until she was longing for him to touch her further, again and again, deeper.
“Look at me, Katrina.”
“Please …”
“Look at me!”
Her eyes opened at his ruthless command. He was still touching her, arousing her breast with just the stroke of his thumb, barely there, making her ache, burn inside, deep inside.
“Watch me. Watch me touch you.”
“You have no mercy!” she choked out.
He smiled, hiking his left eyebrow slightly. “I’ve lots of mercy, Katrina. You just can’t see that now. But—you will see me.”
His head dipped to her breast. She felt his mouth on her nipple, his tongue sliding around it, a gentle suction that swept into her like molten mercury, making her body shudder and shake, her fingers grasp his hair, a soft cry escape her. Nor did he end it there. With gentle, sweeping force, he administered to her left breast as completely, slid the hard length of his body next to hers, captured her mouth with passion. She was aching; she was not ready for the kiss to break. It did, because his body was moving against hers again, his tongue washing over her belly, his teeth grazing her hip. He moved her and positioned her and she responded to his slightest touch, twisting, catching his hair, gasping, trembling ard
ently.
She felt his hand moving between her thighs. Then his fingers were teasing her, suddenly inside of her, rhythmic, deep, touching that core that was alive and hot with sweet fire. And his face was against her breasts again, and he was telling her how sweet she smelled, like the flowers after a rain, like the air at sea, like something totally edible and so delicious.
She thought that she would die if he did not ease the hunger that had grown in her. She had lost all fear, all sense of right or wrong, all reason; she wanted him so desperately.
But then he was suddenly gone; not really gone, but no longer touching her. He had risen high above her, his weight held by the corded muscles in his arms. She had writhed and twisted and arched to him, wantonly, shamelessly, and now he was staring at her again. Her lashes fluttered down quickly.
“Open your eyes!” he ordered her.
She did—belligerently, defiantly, ready to cry with fury, with loss, with confusion.
He smiled slowly and lazily, so very aware of what he had done to her, exactly how he had made her feel.
“I’m not your husband. Don’t pretend that I am. Touch me. Know that I’m different. That I’m Michael Taylor.”
“Oh!” she choked out miserably, and tried to twist away.
He wouldn’t let her. He fell against her, capturing her face between his hands, kissing her long and fully again, and rekindling fires that still burned with a vengeance.
Then he looked at her again, caressing her cheeks with both hunger and tenderness.
“I am not your husband. But I am a man who finds you beautiful and exotic, and so sensually arresting that I would gladly be doomed to a thousand hells just to touch you. A man who could love you every bit as deeply and well, if you would just give him a chance.”
The movement of his mouth against hers was slow and leisurely, open-mouthed kisses that touched and broke away, kisses that she tried to capture, that she returned.
“Touch me,” he told her again, and she did, her fingers shimmering along his sides, along his back. Know the difference! he seemed to be commanding her, and she did. He was broad and tautly muscled, and her hands shook to adore the vital, powerful feel of him. He wasn’t James; she loved being with him. Him. Loved the tapering feel of his torso, the tautness of his waist.
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