Borrowed Angel

by Heather Graham

  “A guest, nevertheless. And you’re drunk.”

  She still couldn’t see his face. The candle was shaking in her hand, the shadows in the room were spinning crazily, and all the while, she could hear the wind increasing again. The storm was raging with an even greater force.

  He was watching her tensely. “Didn’t you know? That’s a big problem out here. We have a lot of alcoholism.”

  “You’re not an alcoholic,” Ashley retorted. “You’re just trying to ruffle me. You like to disturb and upset me, and I’m not at all sure what I did to you to deserve it.” She was trembling, and she didn’t know why. He hadn’t even touched her. He stood his distance, but she was so acutely aware of him there that it hurt. She wanted him to leave.

  And she wanted him to stay. She wanted to demand to know just what hold he had over her, and she wanted to tell him that she was sick of his temper and his attitude and that she didn’t want anything to do with him. He was right—this was the swamp, and he was part of the wilderness, and she hated the wilderness.

  “What you did to me?” he repeated. She thought that he smiled. She thought that there was a flash of green fire within his eyes. “What didn’t you do to me?” he said.

  “What?”

  Suddenly the candle was snatched out of her hands. The holder rattled as he set it upon the table, and the soft glow fell upon him. His dark hair fell over his forehead. The hard planes of his face were filled with a fascinating tension and his lips were curled into a sardonic, haunting smile.

  Then she saw his face no more.

  He snuffed out the flame with his thumb and forefinger.

  He reached for her, pulling her against him in the darkness. His voice was husky, his body seemed to be an inferno. “Come here, Miss Dane, Miss Ashley Dane. I’ll show you exactly what you’ve done to me.”

  CHAPTER 4

  His arms went around her. She felt his lips come down hard on her own, felt the moist heat of his tongue as it seared past the barrier of her teeth to delve deep within her mouth, bringing into her the very soul of his passion and longing.

  The darkness was a sweet deliverance, allowing her to yield to her own desires, to give to him in that first kiss all that he demanded. Liquid heat invaded her and she trembled. It was only the strength of his arms and the power in his lean body that kept her from falling.

  The wind was with them once more. It lived inside her—wild, tempestuous, heedless of the night. She felt its pulse and its strength. She cried with the wind’s abandon. She didn’t understand him, she didn’t understand the night, but she was glad and reckless.

  She could no more deny what burned within her than she could deny that the wind did swirl and rage. They were both its captives perhaps.

  His lips broke away and his eyes met hers, and she realized that the darkness was not so complete that she couldn’t see something of the man. She saw the blaze in his eyes, and she realized that there was fury in them, that he didn’t want to want her.

  But she saw, too, the anguish and the hunger. She opened her mouth, wanting to protest. She never spoke, for his lips closed upon hers again, and it wasn’t the anger she felt at all, but the force of a need beyond time and place.

  She was in his arms, lifted high, then brought down on the bed where she had lain before, only now she was so much more aware. The sheets were fresh and cool…or else her body was hot. Her mouth had gone dry and her limbs felt weightless as she lay there waiting.

  She heard the hiss of his jeans zipper, and she tried desperately to tell herself that now was the time to stop before it was too late. He barely liked her; no, he despised her, but he would leave now if she asked him to.

  He didn’t despise her. He waged war with some past devil, she thought, and it was because of her tonight that he had been waging his war with a bottle of Jack Black. She needed to reason.

  He stood over her.

  She wanted nothing of reason, not tonight. In the dim light she could see him—whipcord lean, coppery dark skin as smooth and sleek as metal. Muscle rippled in his shoulders, across his chest and his belly. Not a single hair marred the golden expanse of his chest, while below, at his groin, there was a thick ebony profusion of it, a nest for his maleness, pulsing now, aroused, raw and exciting. She felt her breath catch, and she looked at his eyes. But shadow covered him now, and she couldn’t see his face.

  There was still time to protest….

  His hands fell on the robe’s sash and she couldn’t speak. Her lips were slightly parted, they went dry and she had to wet them with her tongue. She remained still, watching his long fingers as they untied her simple knot and moved aside the velour. He stared at her, then drew her against him, and she felt the raging fever of his body. She tried to hold him, but he was pulling off the robe with impatience. Then she was down again and he was straddling her. He was as magnificent naked as man could be. She knew that he watched the emeralds she still wore sizzle their green fire against her bare flesh.

  A deep, harsh cry escaped him. It seemed to come from the very earth and was older and deeper than time. She knew at that moment that she would never deny him. She didn’t understand him, but she could feel him and all of the things inside him.

  She kept her eyes on his as he reached out and brushed his palm over her nipple. He enveloped her breast, then his fingers closed upon the peak. She caught her breath again, seeking not to cry out with the sensation. His left hand came upon her, too, and he covered both breasts and touched each hardened peak until she couldn’t bear it any longer and a cry broke from her lips. Then he bent his head toward her. He caught the pendant between his teeth and tossed it aside. His tongue drew a burning path in the deep valley there and where his hands had lingered. Moisture formed around her breasts. His hand caressed their fullness, his lips and teeth and tongue closed around the buttoned peak, nipping, suckling. Ashley dug her fingers into his hair. Whispers tore from her, words that had no meaning.

  Small, sweet fires broke loose inside her. Flames that teased and tormented and raced like the wind. Deep within, the flame took root. She arched against him, gasping. She felt the pulsing length of his maleness against her bare belly, and that made the fires race more fiercely. They reached the juncture of her thighs, the very core of her desire. She gasped softly. His hands roamed free, curving over her breasts, her hips. She, too, made an eager exploration. Sensation soared like lightning from her fingers as she stroked his flesh, marveling at the smoothness of his shoulders, the ripple of muscles on his chest and the strength of his back. He swept his lips over her midriff and down below, taunting her belly. His hands, large, fascinating, exciting, moved up and down the length of her thighs, then swiftly parted them.

  His eyes were upon hers, but she couldn’t meet them as he rose over her again. Her lips went dry once more and she felt that she ceased to breathe. He stroked the downy red triangle between her legs.

  She felt his fingers deep inside her, exploring, demanding…. Her eyes flew to his and she saw the fascination within them. Her lashes fell to shield her own secrets as a moan of sheer ecstasy burst from her. She tried to rise but he fell against her, holding her to his leisure and his exquisite play. His lips found hers. Then the fiery thrust of his body replaced his taunting touch. She shuddered and cried out again, stunned by the sheer impetus of him and quivering with sensation.

  The wind had ceased, or so it seemed. The world had ceased to revolve. There was only one thing of which she was aware, and that was the power of this man, joined with her in their intimate lock.

  He held still, holding her lips to his, stroking her breasts, grazing her throat with the tip of his tongue.

  And then he moved.

  The wind began to whip again beyond the harbor of their bed, and then within it. The rain came down, slashing with fury against the walls. Ashley didn’t stroke his back or run her fingers through the hair that had so fascinated her. She clung to him. Each thrust touched her with a little lap of fire. She trembled in his
arms, and husky gasps escaped her, until the gasps became cries, and she didn’t recognize the sounds as coming from her. She didn’t realize that she arched and writhed and twisted, finding him more necessary than the air she breathed. Without him, she thought, she would die. The flames burned brighter between her legs. Then they rose high, burst and cascaded down all around her. She’d never thought that such sweet ecstasy really existed, that the body could reach such heights. She held him and felt him still. Eric groaned, going tense and rigid. Then he shuddered and fell beside her, groaning softly again. He pulled her against him, his fingers playing gently with her hair. They heard the wind again, and they were silent together. The silence stretched on.

  Ashley closed her eyes and bit her lip. Her body grew cold, and she longed to cover herself, but she didn’t dare move. There was so much to be said, and yet she couldn’t say anything at all. She opened her mouth, but words wouldn’t come, and so she kept still, all the while feeling colder.

  How, she wondered, could anything so beautiful have become so horribly awkward?

  The seconds ticked on. The wind continued to moan and howl. She tried to turn. Her hair was caught beneath him.

  “Eric?” she murmured tentatively.

  He didn’t respond. Ashley carefully tugged her hair. She pushed up on an elbow, searching out his features.

  His eyes were closed. He hadn’t noticed that she had moved. She took the opportunity to study the man she barely knew, the man with whom she had just made love so intimately. She should be ashamed of herself, she thought. But she wasn’t. Through all of her life she had been careful and distant, but something about Eric Hawk had enticed her beyond reason, and because of that, it had to be all right. Maybe she had known that making love wasn’t necessarily like this; her previous experience had certainly left her untouched. Maybe that was why she had waited, and why everything now seemed like a touch of heaven.

  She was tempted to reach out and touch him, but she didn’t. She just looked at the way his black hair fell over his forehead, and she gazed at the high, broad planes of his cheekbones and the long, straight line of his nose. She liked his mouth—in repose, when he smiled, when he laughed, even when he was angry.

  And she was fascinated by his body. She loved the sleek feel of his flesh, the hardness of him, the ripple of his muscle beneath her fingertips. She loved the leanness of his hip and the sinewed length of his legs, and she loved the very part of him that made him so intensely male, so demanding, so combustible. She probably shouldn’t be studying him so….

  She glanced back to his eyes, and she saw in the dim light that they were open, that they glittered upon her. “Anything different?” he asked her with a long drawl.

  She stiffened. He was going to ruin something that had been special and precious to her. She wouldn’t let him. “Different from what?” she demanded.

  “From the men you’re accustomed to,” he said huskily.

  “What men am I accustomed to?”

  “White men,” he said flatly.

  Ashley tossed her hair back and sat up, throwing her feet over the side of the bed. She spoke with her back to him. “Yes. You’re incredibly insensitive and rude. Are those special traits?”

  She started to rise. She gasped, startled, when his fingers caught her hair. He released her as quickly as she cried out, but she was already down on the bed once more and he was leaning over her. She expected some awful flare-up of his temper but that wasn’t what she received at all. He studied her with his eyes and stroked her cheek.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Physically?” she asked softly. “Or with the barb of your words?”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he repeated. “It’s just that—”

  She stared at him in the dim light, wishing that she could see more. But she knew that what she wanted to see lay inside of him, and no light would help her see that. Only he could allow her the vision she wanted, but he wasn’t about to.

  “Just what?” she whispered.

  “You’re different.” The words were tender. “You’re very different from what I’m accustomed to, and I’m not doing well, am I?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer; he didn’t want an answer. He lay down, turning his back to her. Ashley listened to the wind and to the steady beat of the rain. The tempest was dying again. And she was colder than ever.

  “Eric?” she murmured. She rose and looked at him, then sank back down, not sure whether to be furious or perplexed.

  He was very definitely sleeping.

  Ashley shoved him, grabbing the covers. She plumped up her pillow and in the darkness she wondered how on earth she had begun her day that she had wound up here tonight. She should get up and leave him and go elsewhere.

  But she didn’t seem to be able to do so. She hadn’t the energy. She hadn’t the will.

  Then he moved. His hand landed on her stomach, then his fingers curled around her midriff and he pulled her against him. The soft rush of his breath moved over the top of her head, ruffling her hair. She lay still, feeling how his fingers fell just beneath her heart.

  He slept on, and she gritted her teeth, innately aware that it was the woman in the picture he held so warmly and so gently. She definitely should move.

  But he sighed then, deeply. His fingers moved gently upon her, and he drew her even closer.

  “Eric,” she whispered. Tears filled her eyes. She didn’t want to be here. She was being used, she thought. She, Ashley Dane, who could turn any man down sweetly, coolly, determinedly, with great sophistication, whatever the occasion demanded. This man had used her—and used her still. She had to get away from him. It hurt.

  But she didn’t move. Something told her that maybe it was good for them both, and so she stayed. For a long time she remained awake, looking up at the darkness, seeing patterns on the ceiling. She refused to give up the taste of heaven. He couldn’t hurt her, not unless she let him.

  She shivered suddenly, listening to the rain. A man had been killed out there today. Or a woman. Eric hadn’t believed her, but she knew what she had seen.

  And the murderer had seen her, perhaps recognized her. She hadn’t thought about it all. She had forgotten the events in the swamp when she had been in Eric’s arms.

  Then she knew why she didn’t move away. She felt safe with him. Even if he had stripped away the rapture and the fantasy, she still felt safe.

  The rain beat on. Ashley prayed that it would stop. Then, with tears scalding her lashes, she prayed that she would be able to go home, to escape the swamp and the fear and the man by the next day.

  Especially the man. His effect on her was more disturbing than everything else.

  Eventually light from outside began to seep in through the shutters into the room. Only then did Ashley sleep. It was morning. And with it would come freedom.

  * * *

  Eric awoke with a splitting headache. He knew that he opened his eyes in his own bed. His mouth tasted like turpentine; it was dry and sticky and awful, all at the same time. He thought that the wind was still swirling, then he realized that it was only in his head. Even the rain, it seemed, had stopped.

  He tried to move—and groaned. He hated himself for the way he felt. He’d been no more than twenty the last time he had imbibed so freely. No, that wasn’t true. After the shooting he had drunk himself clear into oblivion on a few occasions. But he had lived in a haze then, in the midst of a nightmare. Thanks to his family, and especially Wendy, he had survived. He’d learned to care again—about his writing, about his heritage. There had been very bad months when he’d lived in total reckless abandon, not caring if he died. But that had been over three years ago now. He knew that he mattered, that the things he had done mattered.

  But last night…

  He stiffened and realized that he was not alone in his bed. He turned around and found that she was still beside him. She slept sweetly, silently.

  Her breath escaped from slight
ly parted lips. She lay with the covers just below her breasts, the curve of her body revealed beneath the white sheet. Her hair fanned out in a burst of flaming color. It curled over her breasts and framed the perfect shape of her face. Redheads were supposed to have freckles, he thought, but she had none. She did have green eyes. Enormous green eyes, dazzling green eyes. They were closed now, but he would never forget their brilliance. He would never forget anything about her.

  Damn, he wanted to forget….

  But he never would.

  From the moment he had first seen her, first heard the whisper of her voice, he had felt the overwhelming draw. He had trembled to touch her, and right or wrong, that touching had been inevitable. Now he was tempted to draw away the sheet, to reach out and feel the warmth of her breast, to savor the lushness of its feminine fullness. His body grew hot and tight, and he quickly looked away from her, wincing, willing his body to forget her.

  Never.

  What the hell was she doing in his life! he wondered furiously. He didn’t want her. She was a contradiction in every move and word. Her sensuality was bedazzling; her honesty was a slap in the face. She had played no games with him; she had walked into his arms as sweetly as an angel….

  An angel from New York City, he reminded himself. A woman in business with one of the richest men in the world. A woman who had traveled the world, who could have anything at all. A woman entertained by him, he well imagined.

  Never to be his. Not really.

  His fingers clenched and unclenched. He didn’t want her to be his. He had known once what it was like to love and hope and dream with a woman who loved him, who lived for the times they spent together, who dreamed with him of a better world and a better time in which to raise their children. He could never have her back again. With her gentle laughter and quick smile and earth-warm loving, she was gone. She would never come again.

  Ashley Dane. Even the name sounded big city. Like a high-fashion model. Like someone with lots and lots of money, dripping in jewels…

  Dripping in emeralds. They sparkled now in the daylight. Green fire lay against her hair where it dangled from her ears. It shone from her wrist, from her fingers. It dazzled there against the rise of her breast, next to the rose-colored peak.