Her poise had evidently been left on the third floor because she couldn’t seem to think of a thing to say. He waited, still silent, for another few seconds, unsmiling, his soft gray cashmere jacket incongruous in contrast to the stronger textures of his brush-thick hair and leathery complexion. She had an urge to slap him. His silence taunted her, conveyed he knew well they’d said it all; that unless something had changed in her attitude, she might as well turn around and disappear again.
“You did tell me,” she finally managed, in a deliberately loud voice, “not to waste it on a stranger. That if I were lonely—”
His palm spun her around so fast she nearly tripped, seared by an iron brand on the shimmery chiffon material at her shoulders. He barked something rapidly to his friends even as he was pushing her away from their curious looks.
“Be very happy that no one in that crowd could conceivably have understood what you were talking about,” he hissed harshly, stopping only when his friends and the other people in the bar room were out of sight. The dim entrance hall was lit by lanterns in sconces, and the air was cold from people opening and closing the doors.
“I didn’t think you were going to give me any chance to talk privately,” she responded calmly. “At least that got your attention.” She felt almost sick inside, just from the touch of his hand on the nearly bare skin of her back; yet she also felt vibrant again for the first time in weeks.
“And do you have something you want to say—privately?” he said sarcastically.
“A public room is fine by me,” she said cheerfully. “For that matter, if you’d rather I found someone else—”
The look he shot her sent acid to her stomach. It was the same feeling she’d had as a child when she’d changed her mind about the roller coaster ride after the first downward rush.
“Where’s your coat?” he said tightly, his voice raspy.
She motioned to the third floor. He trailed her up the stairs like a bodyguard, trailed her back down again, into the room dominated by the noisy beat of old rock and roll, and finally back out again. The man on the first floor didn’t leer this time, she noticed; nor did the bulky blond on the second floor. Buck radiated an aura of just-give-me-an-excuse-to-deck-someone. She couldn’t understand why she was so thrilled to be with him again, but she was. Perhaps she was intoxicated with his aftershave, though the scent was neither woodsy nor musky, but just plain male. And she’d forgotten just how much she loved the odd green and the shape of his eyes, the way the wind tossed up his hair once they were outside.
“No wonder you’re shivering in a dress like that,” he snapped when they’d walked the half-block to his car.
“You don’t like it?” she questioned.
He stalked around and closed the door on his side before answering, rising up in the driver’s seat to fish for the car key in his pants pocket. “If I’d known what the back of your dress looked like, you’d have been backing away from the men in that bar.”
She stared at him, half smiling, as he drove onto the expressway. “You still haven’t said if you like it,” she murmured demurely.
“No. I hate it.”
Carefully averting her face to the window, Loren smiled more broadly, glad her sister had forced her to wear the dress. She slipped out of her sandals and curled her toes toward the blast of heat beneath the console. She was as sure of Buck as she was of a caged tiger, but anger was not the same as rejection. If he didn’t want her with him, she wouldn’t be here.
“Your friend with the curly hair, was that the one you went to school with? The one you went to the Slippery Lady to meet?” she asked idly.
“I’m in no mood for chitchat, Loren.”
So she was silent until he parked near a luxurious condominium high-rise sheltered by huge old trees. The look of the place gave her pause, and she stared at the dark building as Buck came around to her side of the car.
“You expected the cottage?” he said shortly.
“No.” She hadn’t expected anything; she hadn’t thought that far ahead. But she had been hoping for a softer look in his eyes and a gentler touch than the possessive hold with which he claimed her arm.
She stepped inside the foyer as he extricated his key from the lock and flicked on a switch that turned on two soft lamplights. There was no easy-comfort cottage here. A stark-white carpet, very thick, led down two platform steps to a sunken conversational square; huge navy blue couches in velvet took up that space. Most of the lighting was recessed, and the accents were chrome; a white marble fireplace was flanked by bookshelves and a stereo unit. The bar was a Chinese lacquered affair with a navy shine, and there was a grouping of oils—none of them Van Gogh—but she could have drained her savings account and not been able to afford even one. The room was strictly masculine, elegant, austere and very, very expensive. The look of the place was so very different from the comfortable assurance she always found in Buck that she felt suddenly, ridiculously frightened. There was a vulnerable flicker of silver in her eyes when she turned to him.
His jaw seemed to clench even more tightly. “Take off your coat. Do you want a drink first?”
The first grated. “I don’t need a drink, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said evenly.
“Fine. The bedroom’s through there.” He motioned and then turned away from her to hang up his coat. Since she’d neglected to take off hers, he did it for her.
“Was that supposed to be a calculated insult—or just an accidental one?” she inquired softly.
“Insult? But you’ve won, Loren. You can have it all just your way. No relationship or commitment. A body needs sexual release; that’s nature. You haven’t the time for commitments; you don’t want to compromise; you’ve got your own principles that you won’t give up for anyone. So an occasional quick roll in the hay is the perfect answer—”
She froze and turned away from him, closing her eyes for several seconds. A slap in the face would have been kinder. “You know I didn’t mean what I said in the bar,” she wrenched out. “I was angry. I was trying to make you angry…”
“But I think you did mean it. Maybe you wanted to see me, but on your terms, right? Your way, Loren, a stolen moment here and there. With no future. I could tell just by the way you looked at the condo that I’d done something unprintable by having money. Am I wrong?”
He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t right either. He was just totally confusing her. No, in all honesty she hadn’t approached him to talk about their future, but she certainly hadn’t approached him just to go to bed with him. “Buck…”
“Am I wrong?” he repeated harshly. “Have you changed your mind about finding a place in your life for commitments, Loren?”
“I…” She swallowed without being able to speak. What she wanted and what she felt she could have were still two different things. “Listen…” But she had nothing to say.
Neither did he, yet his razor-sharp words were a shocking contrast to the evocative gentleness of his hands. His palm brushed back her hair, and she felt his lips, smooth and cool on the nape of her neck. His arms weaved around her waist, pressing her back against his chest as he kissed the side of her face and the hollow of her shoulder. She drew in her breath, confused all over again to feel what she did, a sweet rush of abandonment as if he’d never said a hurtful word.
His hands crossed, one cupping her breast through the black material, the other stroking her ribs, then down to her abdomen, then lower. She covered his hands tightly with her own, arching her neck back against him, a murmur at the back of her throat barely kept silent.
He found the zipper and the clasp at her neck. In a moment, there was a puddle of silk and chiffon on the floor. She was still wearing stockings and the silver sandals and her wispy undergarments, and she still hadn’t faced him. She had a horrible feeling it was too late to face him.
This wasn’t what she wanted, no commitments, no promises, no future. She could feel passion in her bloodstream, desire like a fever at his touch
—his strength to her softness, the feel of his rougher skin against hers. But it was not the same. She wanted just what she’d had, the man who’d respected her enough to want to cherish and protect her for a lifetime. She wanted just what she’d thrown away.
“Too fast?” he murmured. “Isn’t this what you wanted, Loren? Just free and clear and who cares?” He spun her around; she was as trembly as she was tense, her eyelashes spiking her cheeks in the soft lamplight.
“That isn’t what you really think, Buck—”
“What I think, lady, is that it would only take one time to teach you the difference between having sex and making love.” His mouth seared on hers as he scooped her up and carried her into the darkness…but something happened on the trip down that dark hall. His heart pounding against hers gradually slowed; anger seemed to drain from him as he held her close. Suddenly, his arms cradled; his lips turned soothing and tender, erasing the aching pressure of his earlier kiss. “But it isn’t going to work,” he murmured. “I could no more touch you that way than fly. Dammit, Loren, you’re not trembling because you’re afraid of me?”
A year from now, she might smile; he sounded so shocked at the idea. At the moment, she shook her head, meaning it. Buck had a capacity to hurt her that frightened her all the way to her soul, but it had nothing to do with fear that he would physically harm her.
“People have a right to get angry,” he whispered. “It’s part of caring, Loren. I could shout from the North Pole if I thought it would make you see sense. But I wouldn’t harm you for my life. You must know that?”
“I know. Buck…” The bedroom was chilly and pitch-black; she was still shivering when he laid her on the soft, furry spread, deserting her there. She heard the sound of buttons being undone, his zipper. “We have to talk…”
“We’ve been talking. And we’ll talk again. Later…” The stockings were very gently, very firmly peeled off. His palms slowly glided up her vulnerable flesh, from her toes all the way up to her rusty curls, which he smoothed back as he settled next to her, his voice as calm as melted butter. “Loren, I need to hold you. Don’t tell me no.”
His leg shifted, and his arm swept around and molded her close, his palms sweeping from her hips to her spine and up until his fingers splayed in her hair. Soft lips teased at her temples, her cheeks, her chin, and then suddenly possessed her mouth with a pressure that was intoxicatingly provocative.
It was an effort to keep her hands firmly at her sides. “Buck, I did not come for this. I don’t want you to think that. To see you, yes, but…”
He didn’t seem interested in why she came, only that she was here. His mouth teased, his tongue flicking the smooth outlines of her teeth, the roof of her mouth, her tongue. Trust me, his mouth said as his tongue played a parody of love, thrusting into warm darkness, then withdrawing. Lazily, his palm arched her hips to his, reminding her of the much more powerful thrust and parry of love. She had loved him…
He didn’t play fair. The same lazy hand took a leisurely sensual path around to the front of her thighs, skimming over the curling mound of hair, up over the abdomen and ribs she’d always hated; she was too thin. The palm closed on her breast as his mouth left hers. She was suddenly short of breath, her voice cracking.
“Buck, I can’t think…”
“They’re perfect, Loren,” he said gravely. “Small but exquisitely perfect. Like all of you.” His lips closed on her nipple, her breast swelled in his hand. His teeth grazed the taut peak, then apologized with a warm, soothing tongue, again and again. Her fingers made fists at her sides. She tried to shift, but then so did he, his mouth circling the other breast, his finger tracing the underside. He cradled her breasts, pushed them together, then licked the crevice he’d made. His touch was seduction, but so much more… There was tenderness, a worshiping of the feel of her skin, a knowledge of what moved her more than physical needs. He was loving her, trying to prove to her the value of what they could really have if only she would see it. And every inch he touched felt like gold, he had a Midas touch…
Her swelled breasts suddenly crushed to his chest. His mouth claimed hers yet again as he molded her to the length of him, his arousal pulsing between them. She couldn’t seem to fight him anymore, couldn’t even remember why she had been trying. There was a wild, sweet song that kept singing in her veins, her head, her heart…the song he was teaching her. She matched the pressure of his lips with her own, fiercely running her hands over him to make up for lost time. She felt as if she understood everything he had been trying to say, was hungry for him as she had never been hungry for anyone in her life, for his touch, for the look of him, for his mind and his laughter and his own special brand of loving.
His mouth clamped down on hers, meeting fire with fire. Gentle caresses turned fierce to match hers until she felt weak again; then his kisses softened, trailing down her throat to her navel, trailing down to the soft, intimate parting of her thighs.
“Buck…” she protested.
Toes curled, her throat arched back. A year later, he trailed back to her mouth and his fingertips traced the trembling shape of her lower lip. Her body was shuddering, long since acknowledging that she was still a novice at a game he had mastered ages ago, long since aware he had concepts of loving she’d never conceived of.
“You were married. Don’t you know more than that?” he whispered teasingly.
She shook her head, tears of emotion glistening in her eyes.
His fingertips soothed back the damp hair at her temples. “We haven’t even started, Loren. I could make love to you for the next ninety years, and there would still be more. This is only one arena; there are still so many more we haven’t touched. Listen to me…”
She leaned over him, cupping her palm over his mouth. “We’ll talk,” she agreed. “Later.”
Chapter Eleven
It was three in the morning when she called home and was relieved beyond belief that Rayburn answered rather than Angela or Gramps. “I didn’t want anyone to worry,” Loren said hesitantly. “It’s not exactly my habit to…that is, I don’t think I’ll be home before morning—”
“I understand,” came Rayburn’s quiet voice. “You went out for an early morning drive, miss, just before your grandfather came down for coffee.”
She smiled wryly. “I don’t think that’ll wash, Rayburn, but I’d sure appreciate it if you’d give it a try.”
She was up at dawn, a most unreasonable hour when she hadn’t had more than an hour or two of sleep. Perching on one elbow, with a tender smile, she studied the insatiable man curled next to her. His legs were sprawled, and his hair all tousled, and thick, short black eyelashes brushed his cheeks. She’d better cherish such vulnerability, she decided, because he didn’t show much of it when he was awake. In fact, there was no forgiving him at all for the way he’d behaved…the earlier part of last evening. Unfortunately, it was the small hours of the morning that lingered in her mind, memories of a loving touch that wouldn’t stop even when they were both exhausted. Over and over, he’d drilled into her head and her heart and her body and her soul that they were a matched pair, that matched pairs were very rare, that only a fool would toss out the chance for that kind of love…
Now, with his arms curled around her and two comforters still tucked to their chins, she felt wrapped in a cocoon of love; as if she’d been a crazy fool ever to run from him. Yet her eyes flicked lazily over the bedroom she’d hardly noticed the night before…the costly satin sheets, the gilt-and-black original Japanese prints, a huge Oriental-style wardrobe, and just beyond a balcony view of lawn and woods and lilacs…
Buck made a sleepily protesting sound when she slipped out from under his arm, but he didn’t awake. The room was freezing. She was definitely risking pneumonia simply by going to the bathroom so she detoured first to his closet, emerging a moment later with a thick terry-cloth bathrobe belted around her.
She didn’t really fully waken until she’d splashed cold water on her face, b
orrowed his toothbrush and then his hairbrush. Only then did she really look at the bathroom, with its sunken navy porcelain tub large enough for two, brass fittings and huge velour towels. The wall beyond the tub was a mirror, all of it. She looked at herself: the glow of color in her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes, the wild way her hair was sensually waving this morning, the silly non-fit of the bathrobe. Her toes were completely buried in thick, dark carpeting, and her lips were scarlet, like a permanent love bruise. She had been loved, long and well, and it showed. And she was in the middle of a room that was stamped with the mark of a very wealthy man, representing the kind of lifestyle she’d sworn she would never again be a part of…
She tiptoed from room to room, not wanting to wake Buck, trying to refit her previous image of him with the new one. She knew the Buck of jeans and walking boot, the man who knew how to fix a hot-water heater. The man who lived here had a closet full of tailored suits, and—she flicked a finger on a table—a maid who kept even the corners dust-free, a liquor cabinet and dining room prepared for entertaining, and a study that was dauntingly filled from floor to ceiling with technical books. If the place was essentially masculine, it also reflected comfort and ease of living, and there was a sensual feel to the decor and in the kinds of paintings he had chosen. It was the home of a very successful person who knew exactly what he wanted and had gone out and gotten it. Like you, Loren? she thought fleetingly.
She wandered to the kitchen and opened enough cupboards and drawers to have a feel for breakfast potential and more immediately for coffee. As she added grounds to the coffeemaker, she studied the little room and almost unwillingly started smiling again. Bachelor echoed here. He had been more than willing to sacrifice cupboard space in favor of a dishwasher, microwave, coffeemaker and a myriad of other small appliances—the duties of his maid, she guessed, didn’t extend to cooking. The refrigerator confirmed that: a quart of milk was on one shelf, two dozen eggs on another, fresh fruit on the third—and the bottom shelf consisted of a lot of yawning space. The freezer was bulging with steaks and exotic frozen dinners.
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