“Women love that sort of thing,” she murmured. She took another sip of her rum, then remembered she had decided not to drink any more.
“What sort of thing?” he asked, propping his cheek on his fist.
He had very nice hands. Long, strong, slim, and neat. They were darkly tanned, like his face and arms. She noticed another scar on the heel of his hand.
“You're either a soldier of fortune or very clumsy,” she said.
“Hmmm?”
She pointed to his scar. He clearly didn't understand what she meant. Emboldened by his comfortable response to whatever inappropriate thing she said, she reached over and traced the scar on his hand.
“Oh, that.” His voice was husky.
“And this one.” She reached up to his temple. He went very still, looking into her face as she traced the fine, white line that disappeared into his hair. “And your nose...” She ran her finger down its bridge. “It goes a little sideways.” Her own voice sounded raspy to her. She suddenly wanted to run her fingertip across his full lower lip, too. But there was no scar there, so she pulled her hand away.
He moved a little closer. “Yeah. Broke my nose a couple of times.”
“How?”
“Fighting.”
“You must have quite a temper.”
His smile made her catch her breath. “Nah. I'm a pussycat.”
“You're flirting with me,” she said in surprise.
“It's either you or those three guys in the corner, and I don't think they'd like my tie.” His teasing gaze was perceptive. “You don't like flirting?”
“I'm ... unaccustomed to it, shall we say.”
“We can say whatever you like. But you must live in a guarded tower if you're not used to men flirting with you.”
“A guarded tower?” She grew pensive and took another sip of her drink. “A guarded tower,” she repeated.
“Are you married?” he asked quietly.
She blinked. “No.” No guard needed. She was the tower.
“Oh. Okay.”
“Why? Would you get up and leave if I said yes?”
“No. There's no harm in talking. But I wouldn't...”
“Wouldn't what?” What else did this flirtatious, impertinent stranger intend?
He shrugged and looked around the room. “If you'd said yes, I wouldn't ask you to dance.”
“We can't dance. There's no dance floor.”
He grinned again. “No dance floor? Damn. And we sure don't want to break the rules in a fine, upscale establishment like the Bar Tigre, do we?” He slid off his stool and took her hand without asking. No one ever touched her without asking. “Come on. There's an empty space, there's music, and there's a handsome guy like me. What more do you need?”
There was indeed music, though she had hardly noticed it until a moment ago. Blaring out from the dusty speaker of an ancient radio, which the bartender obligingly turned up, the rumba had a scratchy, tinny sound.
“How's your rumba?” the man asked, taking her in his arms.
“It needs work.”
“Now's your chance.”
He made her laugh, because he couldn't rumba any better than she could, but he sure knew how to enjoy trying. Anyhow, a man that graceful, that comfortable with his body, could fake it pretty well. She was giggling when the dance ended. Absurd.
“I never giggle,” she said fastidiously, her hands still imprisoned by his.
“You should. It makes you look pretty.”
He sounded so sincere that she flushed. She had been lavishly complimented in the most elegant phrases, and by the most sophisticated of men, but it must be fifteen years since the last time she had felt shy and tongue-tied in the face of a man's honeyed words. “Oh.”
The music changed. The new song was a slow, sensual Latin melody with a languid, suggestive beat. Madeleine nervously tried to pull away. The stranger held fast to her hands. She looked up, and their gazes locked. He tilted his head a little, and the suggestion of a smile played around his full lips, making the corners of his eyes wrinkle slightly. He looked four, maybe five years older than herself. His eyes narrowed and beckoned to her from behind their fringe of dark lashes, his expression a combination of laughter, challenge, and sexual foreplay.
“One more dance,” he murmured.
“Um...”
“I dare you.”
“Dare me?” She stepped into his arms.
He nodded. “I knew you wouldn't resist a challenge. Comfortable?”
She drew in a steadying breath but didn't respond. He'd pulled her much closer for this dance than he had for their rumba. She braced a hand against his hard shoulder, trying to keep her distance.
“Don't you sweat?” he asked.
“I am sweating.”
The hand at her waist moved up and down her back in slow, exploratory caress. She shivered and moved forward a little, seeking to escape its pressure. The movement brought her breasts into contact with his chest. He pressed her closer and drew his palm slowly across her shoulders, then back down to her waist.
“Barely sweating,” he concluded. “And it's hot enough to suffocate tonight.”
Her back burned where he'd touched her. Her waist vibrated under the light pressure of his hand. To her extreme embarrassment, her nipples were growing hard where they pressed against his chest. She wondered desperately if he could feel them.
Their eyes met. His had lost their teasing look and were growing heavy-lidded and sleepy. It made him look softer. It made her want to touch his cheek, stroke his hair, nuzzle him. She stiffened and tried to pull away.
He resisted. Not enough to force her to stay in his arms; just enough to give her time to realize that she didn't really want to pull away after all. He shifted the hand that held hers and laced his fingers with hers. She complied willingly and let him draw her even closer, so that their hips pressed together as he slid one leg between her thighs.
He lowered his head. She felt his cheek against hers, hard and slightly rough with his five o'clock shadow. She felt him nuzzle her hair, inhaling its fragrance, and she quivered against him, closing her eyes.
“Relax,” he murmured, sensing her tension. “Don't you ever let your spine sag?”
“Never.”
“Never say never,” he whispered. His hand slid up her back to gently knead the tight muscles between her shoulder blades.
She sighed and slid her arm around his neck, running her fingers through the soft hair at his nape again and again. He was a feast of different textures: warm, smooth skin; slightly abrasive stubble; hard, bulging muscle beneath damp cotton; silky soft hair; soothing, stimulating hands.
His strong, clever fingers unlocked all the secrets she carried between her shoulders. All the anger she never showed, all the fears she kept hidden, all the weariness she never gave into; he freed it all and let it flow between them. She sighed and pillowed her head on his shoulder, wondering at his skill, his understanding. It was as if this perfect stranger knew things about her that no one in her life had even guessed.
Wanting to hold him with both arms, wanting both his hands to be free to touch her, she pulled her other hand out of his grasp and slid it around his shoulder. He responded by embracing her fully and letting his hands roam freely over her shoulders, back, and waist.
The intensity of his touch increased, his warm hands releasing other, more deeply buried instincts. She clung to him, feeling the depth of her loneliness, wondering how she could bear it if he stopped touching her. Her belly throbbed with desire, with a pulsing, insistent need to be even closer to him.
The song ended. The chirpy voice of the d.j. intruded on this drowsy, magical feeling. Madeleine raised her head. The man in her arms stilled, then caressed her cheek lightly before tilting her chin so that their eyes met.
“Ask me up to your room,” he whispered, his eyes glowing with lush, emerald highlights, his voice thick with promise.
“I can't.”
His expressio
n didn't change. “I won't hurt you.”
“I ... believe you.” Crazily enough, she did. No man who touched her like this, who looked so tender, who teased so sweetly would be cruel or selfish.
“I've got condoms.” Seeing her flush, he pointed out, “Well, it makes a difference. I thought that might be why you—”
“No. I mean, I haven't got a room.”
He gave a short puff of laughter. “Then come up to my room.”
“Uh, I...” She lowered her gaze, confused and astonished. She was actually considering it! She, Madeleine Barrington, was actually considering accompanying this total stranger to his hotel room and going to bed with him.
She had only gone to bed with three men in her whole life, and she knew everything about them, their families, and even their trust funds before taking the leap. She never slept with a man unless she had dated him seriously and exclusively for months.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice both familiar and unfamiliar, both comforting and disturbing.
“I'm...”
Her behavior tonight would shock everyone she'd ever known. She was always the model of propriety, good sense, and self-control.
“It's okay to be nervous,” he said. “We are strangers, after all.” He pressed his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “But I don't feel like a stranger with you. And I want you. I want you like ... like it's my first time all over again.”
She trembled in response to the hot longing in his voice. He smelled sharp and tangy, and his breath was a little faster than before. Of its own volition, her hand moved to cup his cheek. He turned his head and pressed a kiss into her palm. His lips were hot and damp.
She started breathing like a swimmer, struggling for fast pants of heavy, humid air. The music started again. She ignored it, focusing on the man who held her in his arms.
Who would ever know? She was all alone here at the ends of the earth. She could be someone else for a night in Montedora City, someone wild and irresponsible, someone free and driven only by instincts.
There was no one here to see her break down and, for once in her life, do something sordid, unconventional, unwise, and wholly out of character. She was so tired of being perfect, so tired of being Madeleine Barrington. And tonight, she was so lonely. She couldn't bear the thought of being alone. She couldn't bear the thought of letting this man go.
No one would ever have to know. It would be her secret. Their secret. She made a silent pact with this nameless stranger. For this one night, he would show her another side of life and give her things that were normally beyond her reach. And then tomorrow, it would be all over. She'd get on a plane for New York and forget all about him. He'd forget all about her, too; he didn't even know who she was.
She could do whatever she wished tonight, and then put it safely behind her, never to worry about exposure.
“Where's your room?” she whispered.
CHAPTER TWO
Ransom wished he had some place nicer to take her than his hot, shabby room in the Hotel Tigre. She was a woman who deserved satin sheets, marble floors, a sunken bathtub, a balcony with a view, and a bed that didn't creak and groan with every movement. However, the Hotel Tigre was as good as it got in Montedora, which was undoubtedly why the country had no tourist trade.
Carrying her briefcase for her, he took her slim, elegant, manicured hand and led her out of the bar, across the overgrown courtyard with its dry fountain, and into the hotel lobby. It was empty. There was no one behind the reception desk either, though Ransom could hear a television set blaring in the staff room.
“The elevator is this way,” he said, leading her down a corridor.
“How long have you been staying here?”
“Too long.” He had a feeling she had only asked to cover her nervousness. She hid it well, but he could tell she was a little scared. It was a safe bet that she didn't do this often. Neither did he. But something about the things she said to him, the way she looked, and the way he felt when he touched her had made this as natural and inevitable as the tide rushing home to the waiting sable sand.
They rode the elevator up to the third floor, then walked down the hallway to his room. He glanced at her when he unlocked the door, wondering if she was going to change her mind while there was still time. Their eyes met and she raised her chin abruptly, making him smile. Did she think he wanted to arm wrestle her? Well, maybe they would wrestle a little, depending on her tastes. He opened the door and showed her inside.
He didn't bother to turn on the light as he locked the door behind him. The room looked better in the shadows. Anyhow, there was more than enough light to see her by; a movie theatre across the street flashed its bright neon lights directly into Ransom's window. He watched her look around the room.
“I asked for the honeymoon suite, but it was already booked,” he said, setting down her briefcase.
She dropped her purse onto the dresser. “It doesn't matter.”
He watched the light play on her silver blond hair, making it glow like moonbeams in the shifting shadows. “No, it doesn't,” he murmured, feeling a slow burn start deep in his belly. He dropped his jacket on a chair and came toward her. She didn't back away or flinch or do any of the things that would have made him feel like a heel for bringing her here. His throat felt tight when he put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his head to kiss her.
Madeleine felt the firm, confident pressure of his warm, full lips against hers and tasted the slight saltiness of his mouth. The flashing lights coming through the windows played on the golden streaks in his hair. His eyes gleamed with reflected light, though his features were veiled in shadow as he lifted his head and looked down at her. She sensed the tension building in him. His fingers gripped her shoulders a little harder.
She felt a soft puff of laughter stir her hair before he said, “I just realized I don't even know your name. Mine's—”
“No,” she said suddenly. “No names.”
He hesitated a moment, a little surprised. “Why not?”
“Not now.” She slid her palms against his chest, feeling his breathing quicken. “Later.”
He swallowed and pulled her closer, so that their thighs and bellies pressed together. “You'll tell me later?”
“Yes,” she lied. If he insisted in the morning, she'd make up some name. However much she wanted him, he must never know who she was. She could never live down something like this if he turned out to be the kind of man who bragged about his conquests.
His hands moved down her arms, kneading her bare flesh, burning her skin with their possessive touch, then slid around her waist. His eyes grew heavy-lidded and sleepy as he lowered his head. She braced herself for his kiss, knowing that there was no question of turning back now. She only hoped she could control her nervousness, which was threatening to take over her whole body. It was an effort to keep her hands from shaking as she ran them over his shoulders and into the thick, soft hair at his nape.
Their mouths met, and this time he kissed her without restraint. His lips were hot and moist, and he rubbed them against hers with such intensity that her mind reeled and she sagged against him. He supported her weight in his arms, arching her backward as he braced her against his body. The room spun around her, and she found herself clinging bonelessly to him, surrendering her strength to him. She felt his mouth on her cheeks, her chin, her eyelids, her forehead. Gentle, inquisitive, and tickling at first, then bold, wet, and seductive. She heard a harsh, rasping sound and recognized it as her own breathing. His breath gusted against her skin. She didn't know if she was excited or afraid or both.
He nuzzled her neck and buried his face in her hair, inhaling its scent. “God, you smell good,” he said hoarsely.
His touch was elemental. His inherent sensual power shocked her. She had never before felt her self-control disintegrate so thoroughly after just a few kisses. This man didn't just kiss, he devoured. He didn't just embrace, he conquered. She struggled against her s
enses, afraid of the wild rush of desire that coursed through her veins. Her nerves practically vibrated as she struggled against the total abandon her body was demanding.
This quivering, mindless, disorientation wasn't what she had expected. This sizzling awareness of his scent, his heat, his tension, was outside of her experience. This overpowering surge of adrenaline panicked her. Feeling like a terrified virgin, she whimpered, horrified to hear herself do so. She never lost control of herself. What was happening to her?
The sound seemed to please him. He murmured against her neck. She had only a moment to contemplate pulling away, running from the room, and escaping this folly. Then his mouth was on hers again, and she felt the intimate, satiny intrusion of his tongue at the same moment that his hands slid over her bottom and pulled her hips against his. The hard bulge he ground against the cleft of her thighs made her cry out, but the sound was trapped in her throat. So was the sound he made, while their tongues twined and dueled and his hips moved aggressively against hers. She felt a hot, painful rush of lust flow through her body and pool in her loins, as if he'd opened a floodgate inside her.
Suddenly her nerves dissolved into a seething mass of needs, and all the expectations based on previous experience vanished and fled. Instinct and passion took over, and all she thought or knew or cared about was the man who was satisfying those needs, even as he created others within her, new and voracious ones she'd never known or imagined. She answered the insistent pressure of his hips and made room for him by parting her thighs and nestling him even closer to the core of her body. She answered his pleased groan by digging her fingers into his bottom and pulling him still closer, revelling in the freedom to demand him, tease him, entice him.
Their kisses were hot and deep, wet and shameless, breathless and rough. She felt his fingers searching her dress for a zipper, and she bit his neck impatiently because he was looking in the wrong place. Eschewing the elegance, subtlety and careful staging she had always expected and received, she stopped caressing him long enough to fumble in the well-concealed seam at her side and undo her zipper herself. He took her cue and started tearing off his own clothes, his eyes devouring her boldly as she unfastened the buttons at her neck and pulled her dress over her head. He flung off his shirt, then pushed down his trousers and briefs, kicking them away.
Fever Dreams Page 2