Captivated

by Nora Roberts

  me in those days, as I loomed over half the boys in my class. We dated on and off through senior year.” She sipped her wine. “And did a lot of necking in his ’72 Pinto.”

  “Hatchback?” Nash asked between bites.

  “I believe so.”

  “I like to get a clear visual.” He grinned. “Don’t stop now. I can see it. Exterior scene, night. The parked car on a dark, lonely road. The two sweethearts entwined, stealing desperate kisses as the radio sings out with the theme from A Summer Place.”

  “I believe it was ‘Hotel California,’” she corrected.

  “Okay. Then the last guitar riff fades. . . .”

  “I’m afraid that’s about it. He went to Berkeley in the fall, and I went to Radcliffe. Height and a nice pair of lips just wasn’t enough to keep my heart involved at a distance of three thousand miles.”

  Nash sighed for all men. “‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’”

  “I believe Joe recovered admirably. He married an economics major and moved to St. Louis. At last count, they’d produced three-fifths of their own basketball team.”

  “Good old Joe.”

  This time Morgana refilled the glasses. “How about you?”

  “I never played much ball.”

  “I was talking about high school sweethearts.”

  “Oh.” He leaned back, enjoying the moment—the fire crackling at his back, the woman smiling at him through the candlelight, the good-natured fizz of champagne in his head. “She was Vicki—with an i. A cheerleader.”

  “What else?” Morgana agreed.

  “I mooned over her for nearly two months before I worked up the courage to ask her out. I was shy.”

  Morgana smiled over the rim of her glass. “Tell me something I can believe.”

  “No, really. I’d transferred in the middle of junior year. By that time all the groups and cliques are so firmly established it took a crowbar to break them up. You’re odd man out, so you spend a lot of time watching and imagining.”

  She felt a stirring of sympathy, but she wasn’t sure he’d welcome it. “And you spent time watching Vicki with an i.”

  “I spent a whole lot of time watching Vicki. Felt like decades. The first time I saw her do a C jump, I was in love.” He paused to study Morgana. “Were you a cheerleader?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Too bad. I still get palpitations watching C jumps. Anyway, I finally sweated up the nerve to ask her to the movies. It was Friday the 13th. The movie, not the date. While Jason was hacking away at the very unhappy campers, I made a fumbling pass. Vicki received. We were an item for the rest of the school year. Then she dumped me for this hood with a motorcycle and a tattoo.”

  “The hussy.”

  Shrugging philosophically, he polished off his lobster. “I heard she eloped with him and they went to live in a trailer park in El Paso. Which is no more than she deserved after breaking my heart.”

  Tilting her head, Morgana gave him a narrowed look. “I think you made it up.”

  “Only part of it.” He didn’t like to talk about his past, not with anyone. To distract her, he rose and changed the music. Now it was slow, dreamy Gershwin. Coming back to the table, he took her hand to draw her to her feet. “I want to hold you,” he said simply.

  Morgana moved easily into his arms and let him lead. At first they merely swayed to the music, his arms around her waist, hers around his neck, their eyes on each other’s. Then he guided her into a dance so that their bodies flowed together to the low throb of the music.

  He wondered if he would always think of her in candlelight. It suited her so well. That creamy Irish skin glowed as fragilely as the rose-tipped china. Her hair, black as the night that deepened beyond the windows, was showered with little stars of light. There were more stars in her eyes, sprinkled like moondust over the deep midnight blue.

  The first kiss was quiet, a soft meeting of lips that promised more. That promised anything that could be wished. He felt the champagne spin in his head as he lowered his mouth to hers again, as her lips parted beneath his like the petals of a rose.

  Her fingers glided silkily along his neck, teasing nerves to the surface. A low moan sounded in her throat, a moan that had his blood humming in response. Her body moved against his as she deepened the kiss. Her eyes remained open, drawing him in.

  He slid his hands up her back, aroused by her quick shudder of response. Watching her, wanting her, he tugged the band from the end of her braid, combing tensed fingers through to loosen the intricate coils. He could hear her breath catch, see her eyes darken, as he dragged her head back and plundered that wide, unpainted mouth.

  She tasted danger and delight and desperation. The combination swirled inside her, a headier brew than any wine. His muscles were wire taut under her hands, and she shivered with a mixture of fear and pleasure at the thought of what would happen when they sprang free.

  Desire took many forms. Tonight, she knew, it would not come as the patient, reverent exploration they had known before. Tonight, there were fires raging.

  Something snapped. He could all but hear the chains on his control break. He pulled away, his hands still gripping her arms, his body a mass of aches and needs. She said nothing, only stood, her lips soft and swollen from his, her hair tumbled like restless night around her shoulders. Her eyes full of smoke and secret promises.

  He dragged her back again. Even as his mouth was devouring hers, he lifted her off her feet.

  She’d never believed she would allow herself to be swept away. She’d been wrong. As he strode from the room and up the stairs, both her mind and her body went willingly with him. Reckless and ready, she let her lips race over his face, down his neck, and back up to meet his avid mouth.

  He didn’t pause at the bedroom door, not even when he saw that she’d brought the candles and music with them. The bed was centered in their glow, beckoning. He tumbled onto it with her.

  Impatient hands, hungry mouths, desperate words. He couldn’t get enough. There couldn’t be enough to fill this gnawing need. He knew she was with him, flame for flame, demand for demand, but he wanted to push her further and faster, until there was nothing but blazing heat and wild wind.

  She couldn’t get her breath. The air was too heavy. And hot, so hot she wondered that her skin didn’t burst into flames. She reached for him, thinking she would ask, beg, for a moment to stop and catch her sanity. Then his mouth crushed hers again and even the wish for reason was lost.

  In a mindless haze of greed, he yanked his hand down the front of her dress. Snaps burst open like tiny explosions to reveal flushed skin and seductive black lace. With a breathless oath, he ripped the flimsy cloth aside so that her breasts spilled into his restless hands.

  She cried out—not in fear or in pain, but in wonder—as his greedy mouth scorched her skin.

  He was ruthless, relentless, reckless. Need sliced through him, hot knives of desire that cut all ties to the civilized. His hands moved over her, leaving aches and trembles in their wake.

  Her response was not submission, not surrender, but rather a greed that swelled as ripely as his own. She took, she tormented, she tantalized.

  They went tumbling over the bed, caught up in a war of passion, wild hands tugging and tearing at clothes, seeking the pleasure of flesh slicked from the heat. He did as he chose, releasing every dark fantasy that had spun in his mind. Touching, tasting, devouring.

  She crested hard, clinging to him as the wave shot her up and left her wrecked. His name was a mindless chant through her trembling lips, a chant that ended on a sob when he sent her soaring again.

  Dazed, she rose above him. He could see the candlelight shivering over her skin, and her eyes, dark and glazed with what he had given her. He knew he would die if he didn’t have her tonight, tomorrow, a thousand tomorrows.

  He pressed her back into the mattress, clamping his hands on hers. Breath heaving, he held on long enough for their eyes to meet. Was it challenge he saw in hers?
Was it triumph?

  Then he plunged deep. Her hands fisted beneath his, and her body rose up to meet him.

  Speed. Power. Glory. They raced together, stroke for stroke, with a strength born of shattering needs. His mouth sought hers again in a bruising kiss. Her arms vised around him, those short, neat nails raking desperately down his back.

  He felt her agile body convulse, heard her broken gasp of stunned pleasure. Then his mind went dim as he leapt off the razor’s edge to follow her.

  * * *

  A long time later, he clawed his way back to reason. He’d rolled off her, wanting to let her breathe. Now she lay on her stomach, sprawled across the bed. Catching his own breath, he stared into the shadows, flipping back through his mind what had passed between them. He wasn’t sure whether to be appalled or delighted.

  He’d . . . well, he supposed plundered would be an apt word. He certainly hadn’t been worried about the niceties. However much pleasure he’d found in making love with a woman before, he’d never slipped over the edge into madness. It had its points, he realized. But he wasn’t sure how Morgana might feel about having had her clothes ripped off her.

  Nash laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. She shuddered. Wincing, he took it away again. “Morgana . . . are you all right?”

  She made some sound, something between a whimper and a moan. He felt a quick stab of fear at the thought that she might be crying. Good going, Kirkland, he thought furiously, then tried again. He stroked a hand down her hair.

  “Babe. Morgana. I’m sorry if I . . .”

  He let his words trail off, not certain what to say. Slowly she turned her head, managed to lift up a limp hand far enough to rake the tangled hair out of her eyes. She blinked at him.

  “Did you say something?”

  “I was just . . . Are you okay?”

  She sighed. It was a long, catlike sound that made his treacherous body twang. “Okay?” She seemed to roll the word around, testing it with her tongue. “I don’t think so. Ask me again when I find the energy to move.” She slid her hand over the tangled sheets to take his. “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Okay.”

  “I wasn’t the one being plundered.”

  The word had a smile spreading lazily over her face. “No? I thought I did a pretty good job.” She stretched and was pleased to see that her body was nearly in working order again. “Give me an hour and I’ll try again.”

  Relief began to trickle through. “You’re not upset?”

  “Do I look upset?”

  He thought it over. She looked like a cat who’d happily gorged on a gallon of cream. He didn’t even realize he’d started to grin. “No, I guess not.”

  “Pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe I am.” He started to reach out to drag her closer and found his fingers tangled in what was left of her bra. “Are you?”

  She wondered that the grin didn’t split his face. He was watching her, all but whistling a tune as he spun the tattered lace on one finger. Morgana pushed up to her knees, noted his very satisfied eyes skimmed over her. “Do you know what, Nash?”

  “No. What?”

  “I’m going to have to wipe that grin off your face.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  Tossing her hair back, she planted herself over him. Slowly, sinuously, she slid down. “Watch me.”

  Chapter 9

  As far as Nash was concerned, life was a pretty good deal. He spent his days doing something he loved, and he was paid very well to do it. He had his health, a new home, and an interesting deal in the works. Best of all, he was enjoying an incredible affair with a fascinating woman. A woman whom, he’d discovered in the past weeks, he was not only desperately attracted to, but considered a friend.

  Nash had learned through trial and error that a lover you couldn’t enjoy out of bed satisfied the body but left the spirit wanting. With Morgana, he’d found a woman he could laugh with, talk with, argue with, and make love with, all with a sense of intimacy he’d never experienced before.

  A sense of intimacy he hadn’t realized he wanted before.

  There were even times he forgot she was something more than a woman.

  Now, as he finished the series of push-ups he forced himself to perform three times a week, he thought over their last few days together.

  They’d taken a long, leisurely drive up to Big Sur to stand at an overlook, wind whipping their hair as they looked out over the staggering view of hills and water and cliffs. Like tourists, they’d taken snapshots with her camera, videos with his.

  Though he’d felt a little foolish, he’d even scooped up a few pebbles—when she wasn’t looking—to slip into his pocket as a souvenir of the day.

  He’d tagged along while she’d poked around in the shops in Carmel—and had been good-naturedly resigned when she piled packages into his arms.

  Lunch on the terrace of some pretty café, surrounded by flowers. Sunset picnics on the beach, sitting with his arm around her, her head on his shoulder, while the great red orb bled fire into the sky and then sank into the indigo sea.

  Quiet kisses at dusk. Easy laughter. Intimate looks in crowded places.

  It was almost as if he was courting her.

  With a grunt, Nash let his arms relax. Courting? No, that wasn’t what it was at all, he assured himself, rolling over on his back. They simply enjoyed each other’s company, a great deal. But it wasn’t courtship. Courtship had a sneaky habit of leading to marriage.

  And marriage, Nash had decided long ago, was one experience he could do without.

  A niggling doubt worked into his mind as he stood to flex the muscles he’d toned over the past half hour. Had he done anything to make her think that what they had together might lead to something . . . well, something legal and permanent? With DeeDee he had spelled out everything from the get-go, and still she’d been smugly certain she could change his mind.

  But with Morgana he’d said nothing. He’d been too busy falling for her to be practical.

  The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. She was too important, she meant too much. She was . . .

  Slow down, Kirkland, he warned himself uneasily. Sure, she was important. He cared about her. But that didn’t mean he was going to start thinking about love. Love also had a nasty habit of leading to marriage.

  Frowning, he stood in the middle of the room he’d set up with benches and weights. Sweat trickled unnoticed down his face as he cautiously took a peek at what was in his heart. Okay, yes, he cared about her. Maybe more than he’d ever cared about anyone. But that was a long way from orange blossoms, station wagons, and a cozy cottage for two.

  Rubbing a hand over his heart, he geared himself up for a closer look. Why did he think about her so often? He couldn’t remember another woman intruding on his daily routine the way Morgana did. There were times when he stopped whatever he was doing just to wonder what she was doing. It had gotten so that he didn’t sleep well unless she was with him. If he awakened in the morning and she wasn’t there, he started the day with a nagging sense of disappointment.

  It was a bad sign, he thought as he grabbed a towel to wipe his face. A sign he should have picked up on long before this. How come there’d been no warning bells? he wondered. No quiet little voice whispering in his ear that it was time to take a long, casual step in retreat.

  Instead, he’d been moving forward in a headlong rush.

  But he hadn’t gone over the edge. Not Nash Kirkland. He took a deep breath and tossed the towel aside. It was just the novelty, he decided. Soon the immediacy of the feelings she brought out in him would fade.

  As he walked off to shower, he assured himself, like any addict, that he was still in control. He could back off anytime.

  But like fingers reaching for an itch, his mind kept worrying the problem. Maybe he was fine, maybe he was in control, but what about Morgana? Was she getting in too deep? If she was as tied up as he was, she could be imagining—what?
A life in the burbs, monogrammed towels? A riding lawn mower.

  The cool spray of water blasted his face. Nash found himself grinning.

  And he’d said he wasn’t sexist. Here he was worrying that Morgana was harboring delusions of marriage and family. Just because she was a woman. Ridiculous. She was no more interested in taking that deadly leap than he.

  But as he let the water sluice over his head, he began to imagine.

  Interior scene, day. The room is a jumbled heap of toys, clothes overflowing out of plastic hampers, dirty dishes. In a playpen dumped in the center of the room, a toddler squalls. Our hero walks in, a bulging briefcase in his hand. He wears a dark suit and a strangling tie. Wing tips. There is a weary cast to his face. A man who has faced problems all day and has come home to more.

  “Honey,” he says with an attempt at cheer, “I’m home.”

  The baby howls and rattles his cage. Resigned, our hero sets his briefcase aside and goes to pick up the screaming baby. The child’s wet diaper sags.

  “You’re late again.” The wife shuffles in. Her hair is a tangled mess around a face set in stern, angry lines. She wears a ratty bathrobe and a pair of fuzzy slippers. As our hero bounces the wet, screaming baby, the wife slaps her hands on her hips and begins to rattle off a list of all his shortcomings, punctuated by announcements that the washing machine has overflowed, the sink is clogged, and she’s pregnant—again.

  Just as the scene he was creating began to ease both Nash’s conscience and mind, it faded out, to be replaced by a new one.

  Coming home with the scent of flowers and the sea in the air. Smiling because you were almost where you wanted to be. Needed to be. Starting up the walk, carrying a bouquet of tulips. The door opens, and she stands there, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, her lips curved in welcome. She cradles a pretty, dark-haired child on her hip, a child who giggles and holds out its pudgy arms. He cuddles the child, smelling talc and baby and his wife’s subtle perfume.

  “We missed you,” she says, and lifts her face for a kiss.

  Nash blinked. With a wrench of his wrist, he shut off the water, then shook his head.

  He had it bad, he admitted. But, since he knew that second scene was more of a fantasy than anything he’d ever written, he was still in control.

  When he stepped out of the shower, he wondered how soon she would be there.

  * * *

  Morgana punched down on the accelerator and leaned the car into a curve. If felt good . . . no, it felt fabulous, to be buzzing along the tree-lined road with the windows down and the sea breeze blowing through her hair. What made it fabulous was that she was going somewhere to be with someone who had made a difference in her life.

  She’d been content without him. Perhaps she would have gone on being content if she had never met him. But she had, and nothing was ever going to be the same again.

  She wondered if he knew how much it meant that he accepted her for what she was. She doubted it. She hadn’t known how much it could mean until it had happened. And, as for Nash, he had a habit of looking at things at a skewed angle and seeing the humor in them. She imagined he saw her . . . talents as some kind of great joke on science. And perhaps they were, in a way.

  But the important thing, to her, was that he knew, and accepted. He didn’t look at her as if he expected her to grow a second head at any moment. He looked at her as a woman.

  It was easy to be in love with him. Though she had never considered herself a romantic, she had come to appreciate all the books, the songs, the poetry, written to celebrate the caprices of the heart. It was true that when you were in love, the air smelled clearer, the flowers sweeter.

  On a whim, she wished a rose into her hand, smiling as she sniffed the delicate closed bloom. Her world felt like that, she realized. Like a rose that was just about to open.

  It made her feel foolish to think like that. Giddy, light-headed. But her thoughts were her own, she reminded herself. Until she made them someone else’s. It occurred to her that, sooner or later, she would have to share them with Nash.

  She couldn’t be sure how long it would be before complications set in, but for now it was glorious simply to enjoy the soft spread of emotion glowing inside her.

  As she pulled into his driveway, she was smiling. She had a few surprises for Nash, starting with her plan for this balmy Saturday night. She reached for the bag on the seat beside her, and Pan stuck his head over her shoulder.

  “Just give me a minute,” she told him, “and you can get out and see what’s what. Luna will show you around.”

  From her perch on the floor of the passenger seat, Luna glanced up, eyes slitted.

  “If you don’t behave, I’ll dump you both back home. You’ll have only