A Matter of Circumstance

by Heather Graham

  Mandy glanced back once again. Julio and Roberto still had not come in. Maria remained where she had been, though, watching them. Watching them just as tragically as Scarlett O’Hara had watched Ashley Wilkes walk into a bedroom with his Melanie.

  Then she couldn’t see Maria, because Sean prodded her into the bedroom. He lit the lantern before shutting the door.

  Mandy stood still, feeling a little rueful, a little shy—and more than a little confused.

  Sean placed the lantern by the bed, then noticed her standing there. He frowned curiously. “What’s with you?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “You saved my life.”

  He shrugged, casting himself back on the mattress, locking his fingers behind his head, then gazing at her with an amused grin. “I didn’t save your life. He had no intention of killing you.”

  “But I’d have rather died,” she said softly. “And—and he might have killed you.”

  “I should hope not!” Sean snorted.

  She walked over to the mattress and sank down beside him on her knees, then lightly ran a finger over the red scratch on his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you clean it?”

  He gritted his teeth and caught her hand. “It’s no big deal. Just leave it alone.”

  She snatched her hand away, reddening. But he didn’t notice; he was suddenly sitting up, playing with her torn shirt, trying to find a way to make it stay completely where it belonged.

  “It’s all right. Just leave it!” she snapped.

  He drew his hand away, scowling. “If you walk around like that tomorrow we’ll be in trouble all over again. In fact, if you hadn’t flounced around today, all this might not have happened!”

  “What are you talking about?” Mandy demanded furiously.

  “You—in the water! Making that stupid outfit look like something from a centerfold.”

  “It’s not my stupid outfit! Nobody warned me to dress for a kidnapping. And Maria didn’t exactly give me the best stuff she had!”

  “You could have stayed out of the water!”

  “Oh, yeah? I’d like to see you locked up for hours and hours on end without going completely mad!”

  He didn’t have a ready answer for that one. He closed his eyes and lay back down, sighing. “I am going mad, I think,” he mumbled. He kept talking in a flat monotone. “If I’d stayed locked up with you, I would be mad. And I wouldn’t know anything.”

  Mandy hesitated a second. “What do you know?”

  “Not too much,” he admitted. “Juan was supposed to be back by now, but he isn’t.”

  “Is Julio worried?”

  “Not yet. He will be by tomorrow night, though. But if we’re lucky, by tomorrow night we may be able to spot the Coast Guard.”

  Mandy moistened her lips. “What happens if Juan never makes it back? What will Julio do then?”

  “Nothing,” he told her.

  “Nothing?”

  “Stop worrying, will you? Things will break soon.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “For God’s sake, lie down, will you please? Get some rest. If things do move, you’ll want to be alert.”

  She lay down beside him, not touching him, but all too aware that he was there. He didn’t speak.

  “He threatened to chop off one of my fingers,” Mandy murmured at last. “Julio did. To send to Peter.”

  There was a soft sigh from beside her. “That was a threat, nothing more.”

  “It sounded real.”

  “What good is a threat if it doesn’t sound real?” He sat up, leaning over to blow out the lantern.

  “But—”

  “Mandy, quit it! Trust me. Everything is going to work out all right. Please, go to sleep.”

  He flopped back down on the mattress, and the ebony darkness surrounded them once again.

  There had been exasperation in his voice, and the harsh sound of his temper rising. Cast once again into a vortex of confusion, Mandy lay still and concentrated on each breath she took.

  It wasn’t fair; he was blaming her for things that were beyond her control. She’d tried to thank him for risking his life, but even that had annoyed him.

  “I didn’t ask to be here!” she snapped suddenly, whirling to face him, though she couldn’t see him at all.

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “You have an attitude about this whole thing! In fact, you’re one great mass of attitudes! I have to thank you, because I couldn’t have dealt with that weasel myself. But it’s not my fault he’s such scum, and it’s not my fault I’ve been given such ridiculous clothes to wear.”

  “I—”

  “You just shut up for a minute! Don’t you dare blame me for anything! I didn’t make you come along—that was your choice.”

  Silence followed her last emphatic words. He didn’t move, and she wondered what his reaction would be to her sudden show of temper.

  “Sean?”

  He chuckled softly, and the sound touched her like a caress in the night. “Are you quite through?” he asked.

  “Quite!”

  “Good. I’m not blaming you for anything—except for the sleep I’m missing right now.”

  “Sorry,” she said stiffly.

  “Lie down.”

  “You’re at it again.”

  “I’m not.” She couldn’t see his grin, but she could feel it. “I didn’t tell you to take your clothes off, I just said to lie down.”

  “You—”

  “You—” His movement was swift, startling, as he gently shushed her with a hand over her mouth. “Querida, go to sleep!”

  Meekly she sank back onto the mattress, his touch, his voice, reducing her to quivers.

  Querida…

  He’d said it so softly. Querida…darling, loved one…sweetheart. It wasn’t just the word; it was the way he had said it, in Spanish, as if there wasn’t an English word that would do justice to his meaning.

  He curled up beside her, his back to her. She tried breathing again, deeply, counting each breath. She was no longer irritated, or even hurt, but she was still confused, both by him and by her own feelings. And also by the yearnings she felt in the darkness.

  She tried to sleep, but she felt as if she was in the center of a maelstrom. It was of her own making, but it was there nevertheless. She heard the beat of her heart, each breath she took. And each breath that he took. She imagined that despite the space he had left between them she could hear the beat of his heart.

  She couldn’t sleep; she couldn’t even keep her eyes closed. She felt a restless energy that defied the night, and if she closed her eyes too long, she thought of Roberto. She remembered waking up, not being able to see, yet knowing he was the one above her. She remembered feeling his hands, knew again the horror of failing in her fight against him….

  She took a deep breath, then exhaled. Sean wanted to sleep, but maybe she could sit with the lantern on the other side of the room. Maybe he wouldn’t mind.

  Sean. She felt awareness ripple through her again, and she couldn’t begin to understand herself. She should have been thinking of the million reasons why she didn’t want anything to do with him. She should have been burying herself in guilt—even in pain. But none of that mattered, not tonight.

  She didn’t even really want the light; she wanted him, awake. Whispering to her, talking to her, reassuring her. She wanted to run her fingers over the sun-browned sleekness of his chest, press soft kisses against his skin, taste the salt of the sea on his flesh….

  It was dark, but she knew that she burned crimson. How could she be thinking this way? Feeling this way?

  She sat up abruptly, determined to reach carefully across him for the lantern and matches. She would take the light to a corner of the room and read her book. That might distract her from the thoughts that were playing such havoc with her mind.

  But when she groped her way over him the rounded curve of her breast fell against his arm, and her bare midrif
f collided with his naked chest. The short crisp hairs there seemed to tease her mercilessly, just as the contact of their bodies, hot despite the coolness of the night, seemed to create a kinetic energy so startling that she drew in her breath.

  He caught her arm, holding her where she lay. “Mrs. Blayne, just what are you doing?”

  “I was…just…I was—”

  “Mrs. Blayne, please don’t touch me unless you mean it.”

  He said it jokingly, lightly, but she knew that he wasn’t teasing.

  “I won’t…” she began, but the words froze on her lips. “Don’t touch me unless you mean it,” he had said. And she had meant it with all her heart and soul and being…this night.

  The midnight blackness left no room for reason or thought, for a past or for a future. All she knew was that she wanted him. Wanted to touch him. To be touched. To go wherever touching might lead them.

  She leaned over him, pressing her lips against the hollow of his shoulder, holding them there for a fervent moment, then pushing the tip of her tongue between them, tasting his flesh, closing her eyes at the sleek salt sensation, savoring the elusive liquid quivering that burst and streaked through her like dancing stars. Savoring his gasp, the catch of his breath, the shudder that racked him.

  “Hey!” He clutched her shoulders harshly, wrenching her high above him. Even in the night she could see the glitter of his eyes. His muscles were taut, his whisper harsh.

  “I said—” he swallowed sharply and continued through clenched teeth “—not to touch me unless—”

  “I mean it,” she interrupted him abruptly, her voice as harsh as his. She didn’t want to talk about it; she didn’t want to be warned. She wanted to be held. She wanted to make love. To feel the world spiraling around her, to arch and writhe and roll in sensual splendor and temptation.

  Still he only held her.

  She tried to whisper to him, but sound eluded her.

  And then it didn’t really matter, because he lowered her against him, slowly, until their bodies touched completely, her length on his, legs tangling, her breasts hard against his chest, their mouths not an inch apart.

  Then touching.

  Perhaps he was still distrustful; perhaps he had a reason to be so. He held her shoulders when he first kissed her, just touching her lips, then pulling away. Then he touched them once again, curiously, questingly. He tasted them next, his tongue an exotic paintbrush that swirled across them like sable. He traced the shape of her mouth, then pressed his lips against her shoulder.

  And then it was as if he gave up all thought of reason. Of sanity. Of the past. Of the future.

  His arms wrapped strongly around her; his lips were hard against hers, almost bruising in their sudden passion. His tongue made an intimate invasion, demanding total entrance, total surrender, bending the night magic of her body solely to his will, throwing her heart to the four winds of chance.

  He held her in his arms and rolled with her, sweeping her beneath him, and the magic continued. His body against hers felt incredibly good, right, as if they had been made not just as man and woman, but as this man meant specifically for this woman, this woman meant just for this man. His body seemed to meld to hers, a fusion of heat, of fire. Like flint to stone they sparked, drew away, then sparked again…and ignited. It was a blaze she never wanted to put out….

  He drove his fingers through her hair, holding her still to meet his kiss. He cupped and massaged her skull, cherished the richness of her hair. She stroked his nape and then his back, skimming lightly over his spine with her nails. And she thrilled to the pressure of his hips against hers, his desire evident.

  He broke the kiss, easing away from her, longing with all his heart to see her. To see the color of her hair. To watch her as he touched her, stripped her…slowly, relishing each new bit of golden flesh revealed to his gaze.

  Rolling closer to her, he ran his fingers over her cheek, then kissed her again with slow fascination and let his hands roam, exploring the roundness of her breast, soft and yet firm, the nipples taut beneath the thin cotton material. Just thinking of them, he felt an inner combustion. Now. He had to have her now….

  But he forced himself to stay under control. He stroked her naked ribs before seeking out the tie of the halter top, gently undoing it, letting the material fall aside. Urgency claimed him again, hot and strident, as her naked breasts fell freely into his hands, taunted his palms. He lowered his head to her, drawing a pattern with his tongue in the deep valley between her breasts, then feeling the splendor of imagination obliterated in the magic of truth as he savored her with his lips, the gentle tender grazing of his teeth.

  He felt dizzy with desire. He moved his hands against her, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her cutoffs, dipping low upon her abdomen, then nearly yanking at the snap and zipper. She issued a soft little cry, and he kissed her to silence her, the motion of his hands edging the cutoffs lower and lower.

  And then it was he who cried out, an oath of impatience, and he moved away from her, grasping the tattered hems of the cutoffs, easing them down the wickedly lovely length of her legs.

  He wanted the light. He wanted to see her: the glorious fan of sunlight and wheaten hair; the shimmering desire in her eyes; her features taut with passion. The rise of her breasts; the dip of her belly. Her back; the curves of her buttocks. He wanted to see all of her.

  He started to move off the mattress, and she realized his intent. Crying out softly, she rose to meet him, grasping his shoulders, burying her head against his neck and seductively pressing her breasts against him.

  “No! Please.”

  “I was just going to light the lamp.”

  “No. No light. Let it be darkness. Let it be magic.”

  He should refuse. He should tell her that there could be magic in the light. He should not allow her to make love in the darkness.

  Done in the darkness, in the ebony night, it would not be real. It would not exist in the morning’s light.

  “Please, Sean. Please.”

  Her whisper, her breath against his flesh, stirred the blaze of his near-desperate passion once again. He couldn’t refuse her anything.

  Kneeling, they moved together. Kneeling, he felt the exquisite femininity of her body, touched so thoroughly by his own. He kissed her, explored her and forced her back at last, pressing her down upon her stomach.

  He couldn’t see her; he had to know her. He pressed his mouth against the small of her back, against her spine. Lust burned raw inside of him. It was torture; it was delicious.

  All along her spine he kissed her, moving his hands down over her buttocks, down her legs, knowing their shape. Down to her feet, and even there he played, kissing her toes, stroking the soles of her feet, massaging them. She arched; she moaned softly; she made little inarticulate sounds. Dear God, he wanted to see her! He smiled a little grimly, even a little maliciously, for the movements of her body cried to his, though she choked back her cries of arousal, of readiness.

  He had no intention of being had so easily.

  When his fingers left her feet they stroked, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, to her inner thighs, urging them apart, finding she had no strength for denial.

  He rolled her over. She was as pliable as a kitten, as passionate as a tigress as she reached for him, whispering incoherently for him to stop, to come to her.

  “Not yet,” he whispered against her lips. He waited there, above her, as his fingers played between her legs, as she gasped and arched against him, holding him, pushing him away, trying to touch him in turn.

  Her nails scratched lightly over his chest, explored his back, tried to dip beneath the waistband of his cutoffs and met with frustration. She tugged at the button and the zipper with trembling fingers and found frustration again. They would not give for her. And again for him it was agony…and it was ecstasy.

  He kissed her, his tongue delving deeply into her mouth. And then he whispered of the wonder of her body, and what it was doi
ng, whispered with his lips just half an inch from her mouth until she thought she would go mad.

  “Sean!”

  “What?”

  “Take—take your clothes off.”

  “Aha! I told you that you would get to it eventually. All women are alike!”

  “Sean…”

  “Mandy, I’d strip for you anytime. In private, of course.”

  She half giggled, half sobbed.

  And he thought that if he waited any longer he would explode, and they would have to pick up the pieces of what had once been a man. In seconds he had obliged her, tossing his cutoffs somewhere into the magical black arena surrounding them, returning to her with the full strength of his desire evident.

  She touched him, and his impatience soared. He held her face with his hands, spread her thighs with his knees, kissed her deeply and entered her deeply.

  The black magic of the night swirled around them. At first the tempo of their loving was slow, then frenetic. Kisses, caresses and the spiraling maelstrom of desire set them apart from the world. This was passion, born in the darkness, bred by fear and sensation, gratitude and natural hunger. And something more….

  He had to be mad. He was lost within her. Lost in the welcoming embrace of her body, shuddering with sensation, volatile, ecstatic, as he had never been before. Touching her inside and out, knowing her, caressing her, reaching the pinnacle together, holding each other, drifting.

  It was passion only, he told himself.

  Strange. When he touched her damp brow, when she curled against him, when the curve of her breast so comfortably touched his chest and her slender leg was cast so trustingly over his…

  It was passion.

  Yet it felt ridiculously as if he were falling in love.

  CHAPTER 9

  When Sean awoke, it was barely dawn with just the palest filtering of pink light entering the room. He could make out Mandy’s huddled form, curled so trustingly against him, lips slightly parted as she breathed, her lashes falling against her cheeks, her hair falling over her shoulders—and his own.

  He eased away from her and carefully pulled the covers to her shoulders. He wanted to hold her, to glory in her all over again, but the shield of darkness was gone, and he knew innately that she had been his only because of that darkness.