Danger in a Red Dress

by Christina Dodd

  Each plate presented an enticing masterpiece of color and texture, and her stomach growled.

  He gestured toward the last three covers placed on the coffee table. “And for dessert—”

  She interrupted with a laugh. “Who’s going to eat all this?”

  “We didn’t know what you would prefer.” He looked bemused and solemn. “We didn’t want you to go hungry.”

  The low light painted shadows in the hallows of his cheeks and just below his brows. The candlelight danced on the individual strands of his shiny black hair. His lips looked soft, his eyes were compelling, but what really held her attention were his hands: large, capable, with long, broad, dexterous fingers that spread butter on a roll and offered it to her.

  “I don’t think I will go hungry,” she said softly.

  His smile promised a meal, and so much more.

  They ate slowly, lingering over the rich mix of flavors, their conversation desultory, centering on the Houston traffic, the shopping in the Galleria, and the excellent restaurants in the area. Yet they said one thing and meant another, talking trivia while feeding each other in a primal ritual of feasting and satisfaction.

  He spoke of the unique flavors of filet mignon and green chili grits, and insisted she try a bite off his fork.

  She exclaimed over the shrimp and the enchiladas, put some on his plate, and watched as he chewed, his strong white teeth flashing.

  All the while they spoke, they were waiting. Waiting as the tension between them built.

  As their appetites wound down, Gabriel reached across the table and caught her hand, his touch warm and insistent. He ran his knuckles across hers. “Let’s adjourn to the couch.”

  She looked into his eyes. They beckoned like emeralds, rich with mystery and with promise. Did he realize he could seduce her with a smile, a glance?

  Of course he did. He was the kind of man she should fear: rich, powerful, ruthless. Like Carrick Manly.

  At the thought, she flinched and pulled her hand back.

  “What’s wrong?” Gabriel said.

  Yet Gabriel was completely different. He wasn’t movie star handsome. He didn’t flash his wealth and his charm to impress. His features were severe, like the impervious stone heads carved by the long-ago Mayans. He seldom smiled. He seldom frowned. His emotions, when he showed them, shone in his eyes and his words. He was a man with depths she couldn’t wait to plumb.

  He had nothing to do with Carrick Manly.

  “Shall we see what Daniel brought us for dessert?” She discarded her napkin and stood, aware once more of Gabriel’s gaze as it caressed the slim line of her body. He made her feel like she belonged in this dress.

  She strolled to the couch and curled into the corner, very aware that her thigh was exposed by the slash in the skirt. Aware, and pleased, because Gabriel couldn’t look away. She caressed the soft brown leather sofa and watched as he casually discarded his jacket and tie, dropping them on the back of his chair.

  The white shirt turned his skin to toast, and the row of buttons drew her gaze down to his belt. “I’ll get the coffee,” he said.

  She watched him walk to the kitchen. She liked his build—powerful shoulders, broad chest, and a taut rear that looked good in suit pants.

  He returned with a tray loaded with a stainless-steel thermos, sweetener, and cream. He placed the tray on the table, and when she would have sat forward, he gestured her back. “I’ll pour. You look right there.”

  Right? His expression didn’t say right. His lips pressed together, and his eyes flashed with possessiveness; he was fiercely, possessively glad to have her in his clutches.

  And if she were smart, she would be feeling wary.

  Instead, she felt as if, after a long, horrible trip, she’d come home.

  He served the desserts on the coffee table—Texas pecan pie with vanilla ice cream and caramelized orange sauce, sweet plantain tamale with caramelized pineapple and coconut ice cream, and a cheese plate—and after she tried a nibble of each, she couldn’t eat another bite.

  Because she wanted to kiss him, to hold him, but first, there were things that needed to be said.

  So reluctantly, she faced him and reminded him, “You promised you would tell me about your family.”

  “Yes.” He looked like he regretted that promise, but he didn’t default on their agreement. “It’s an ugly story. My adoptive parents were murdered by one of the town’s leading citizens. He made it look like they’d stolen the church funds, abandoned their family, run for the border, and wrecked their car. The cops went along with it, either because it was easy and titillating or because the son of a bitch who killed them paid them off.” Gabriel bit off each word.

  She wanted to do something for him, something that would bring him a little comfort. So she put her hand in his.

  He clasped his fingers around hers, held them on his knee. “The family was torn apart, all of us sent to foster care in various parts of the country. Only I didn’t stay. I was mad. Just like before.”

  “And scared, just like before?”

  He looked at her, startled.

  “The nightmares, remember?”

  “You understand me almost too well.”

  She was flattered, yet at the same time, she knew she had barely scratched the surface of this complex, multidimensional man.

  “The nightmares . . . I would dream I was standing in the middle of the busy freeway, up against the concrete barrier, screaming with fear as the cars sped past.” His eyes were a dark, dark green that gazed at a place she couldn’t see.

  Taking care not to make a sudden move, she eased her hip closer to him. “Why would you dream that?”

  His attention snapped back to her, and he said fiercely, “Because it wasn’t a dream. When I was four, my mother abandoned me in the middle of the freeway, and when the police came to pick me up, I wouldn’t go. I said my mama told me to stay there.” The man he was echoed the boy’s anguish. “I had to be forcibly removed.”

  Tears filled Hannah’s eyes and rolled down her face. “Sorry.” Maybe she still wasn’t quite one hundrd percent healthy, because normally she didn’t cry about a long-ago tragedy.

  He handed her his handkerchief.

  She tried to keep her makeup from running, tried to get herself together. “Sorry. I’m being silly, I know, but when I think about that terrified little kid, I just . . . My heart aches.” Her voice broke on the last word.

  Her tears didn’t seem to make him uncomfortable. Instead he watched her closely, as if gauging her sincerity.

  And that well-developed cynicism made her heart ache more. “Sorry. Silly,” she repeated.

  “Everything came out all right.” He waved his hand around as if to distract her with his splendid view and his leather furniture and his personal elevator. “As you can see.”

  “Your mother . . . she never came for you?” Her voice was husky with strain.

  “The news stations publicized the incident, but . . . no. It’s not like a woman who dumps her kid on the freeway is interested in his welfare.” He smiled with a hard hint of scorn. “I’ve never told anyone about my mother and my nightmares. I don’t know why I told you.”

  She smiled back, mocking his derision. “Because I told you about my father, and I never told anyone that before. Because we’ve got a lot in common—we both overcame having loser parents and made something of ourselves.”

  “So we won’t tattle on each other, because we’ve got enough embarrassing information that we can blackmail each other.”

  Her amusement died; sometimes his cynicism went too far. “No,” she said definitely. “We won’t tell anyone, because we trust each other.”

  “Do we?”

  “It would appear we do.”

  “Then . . .” His voice dipped to a warm, deep, seductive tone. “I hope you would trust me to make love to you.”

  As he had so many times before, he took her good wrist in his hand . . . but this time, everything was d
ifferent. His bronzed skin was flushed, his green eyes heated, and he rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, a warm, soft brush of desire. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed it, his breath warm and scented with coffee.

  The desire between them grew taut.

  Her heart began a low pounding, and she flushed and leaned toward him.

  He caught the back of her head and kissed her, a slow melding of their lips and tongues . . . and souls. His other hand stroked her bare arm, her shoulder, and then, as if it were naturally the next step, he found the sway of her breast and pressed the soft mound in his palm, then captured her nipple between this thumb and forefinger. He explored the shape, then rubbed the material over it, tantalizing her with the pull and the rub of silk.

  Her breath came faster, her blood surged in her veins, and deep inside, the desire she felt for him grew into an ache and a need.

  Kissing her all the while, supporting her head in his palm, he rose over the top of her, sliding her back on the couch until her head rested on a pillow. Her rear skated across the silk, the hemline rose to her knees.

  One of his legs was on the floor. His other knee rested beside her hip. His free hand grazed her exposed thigh, and he murmured against her lips, “You’ve been driving me crazy all night. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You picked the dress,” she reminded him.

  He drew back and stared into her face. His palm caressed her leg. “It’s not the dress,” he said fiercely. “It’s you. You’re so strong, so resilient . . . such an enigma. I want to know you, to delve out all your truths.”

  She took a quick indrawn breath. “My truths are too—”

  “Dangerous? Like you?”

  “Why would you think that?” He frightened her. He excited her. When he looked at her, he saw too much. She was afraid he saw the truth.

  He made her want to run . . . and he made her need to stay.

  “Because you are dangerous to me.” His fingers flexed at the back of her neck, massaging and yet holding her in place.

  His body imprisoned her, yet . . . this prison was right. This prison held nothing to fear. Reaching up, she pulled his shirttails out from beneath his belt and opened his shirt, one button at a time. He waited, the only sign of his impatience his chest as it rose and fell. When his shirt hung loose from his shoulders, she ran her flattened palm across his chest, bare of hair and rippling with strength. “You’re so beautiful,” she said throatily.

  His gaze grew harder, hotter, more intense, a magnet that demanded her attention. He pressed her knee up against the back of the couch, opening her.

  His fingers cupped her thigh, then slid toward her panties. Her tiny, barely there panties. He pushed them aside. His thumb slid along her crease.

  She gasped, her lips slightly apart. She wished he’d stop, wished he’d hurry, wished . . .

  His touch struck her like lightning, hot, fast, finding her, entering her.

  In shock, she arched off the couch.

  “You’re already damp.” His voice was warm and low, a soft arousal to accompany all the rest. “All evening I’ve been watching your breasts as they swayed, your nipples as they hardened and relaxed, and wondered what you felt like inside.” His finger plunged into her again. “I’ve wondered if you would respond to me like I respond to you, with every fiber of my being, or if it was all a sham to draw me into your flame.”

  She wanted to object. Why would he think her a sham? How could he even imagine such a thing?

  Was he seeing too much of the truth?

  Then his thumb found her clitoris.

  Unable to hold back, she groaned.

  “Yes,” he whispered. He rubbed her in a slow, soft circle. His finger drew out and went deep again.

  Orgasm struck, blinding her to her surroundings, to her memories, to everything . . . but him. As he rubbed her and fed her sensation after sensation, she was always aware of Gabriel’s body over her, Gabriel’s eyes observing her, Gabriel’s scent enveloping her, Gabriel’s hand inside her. Compelling, convincing, irresistible, Gabriel was everything she’d ever wanted.

  Gabriel was hers.

  When she finished and lay panting beneath him, she realized a few things. He had slipped down on the couch beside her, put his arm under her shoulders, and held her close against his body. His fingers still cupped her inside and out. And he watched her as if her orgasm had been his. “That wasn’t a sham,” he said. “I felt every pulse and every tremor.”

  She could barely breathe, but she managed to ask, “How do I know . . . you’re not a sham?”

  In a leisurely movement, he drew his hand away. He pulled off his belt, unzipped his pants. Once again he rose above her. Taking her hand, he placed it on his belly and slid it down into his shorts.

  Her fingers closed around his erection. It was hot. It was hard. It was large and glorious, and inside, she clenched with renewed desire.

  Above her, his face was taut with strain. “When I look at you, when I touch you, when I’m with you, I can’t think of anything else but what it would be like to be in your arms and show you . . .”

  “What?”

  “The color of pleasure.”

  THIRTY

  Gabriel held his breath as Hannah made her decision.

  Standing, she walked away from him toward the bedroom door—and he realized she had no intention of becoming his lover.

  That was fine. For no reason he could figure out, he’d shared too much about his past.

  Except that perhaps she was right—she’d told him her secrets, and he felt safe in telling her his. But for all her talk about common experiences and having loser parents and making something of themselves, what really made him feel secure was knowing she would be going to prison, and she wouldn’t have the time or inclination to gossip about his nightmares. She’d be too busy living her own nightmare.

  Too bad that fact made him feel like shit, like a lousy, betraying son of a bitch who tried to seduce a woman he didn’t want to want. Too bad the idea of her in prison made him want to take her to Mexico, give her some money, and set her free, his principles and his brother be damned. Too bad the mere thought of all that sweet-smelling purity behind bars made him hurt in his body and his brain. Too bad that the very first day he’d seen her photo was the day he’d lost his mind.

  Then . . . Hannah stepped through the bedroom door. And beckoned. And he realized—she stood in the master bedroom.

  His breath caught in his throat. He forgot his scruples, pathetic though they were. All he could see, all he could think, was Hannah. My dream. My love.

  He limped toward her, his gaze clinging to the smooth sheen of the gown, to the glow of her shoulders, to the dangerous sparkle of her eyes.

  She stepped back to let him inside, and shut the door behind him. And locked it. “With that wound, you shouldn’t be doing this at all,” she said throatily. “So—get on the bed.”

  He hesitated, caught between the desire to dominate and the desire to be loved. Love triumphed, and he backed toward the end table, leaned against it, discarded his shoes and socks. . . .

  She leaned against the door, her palms flat against the polished wood. “You might as well take it all off.” She held up her bandaged arm. “I’d do it for you but, you know, my wrist . . .”

  His shirt slipped easily from his shoulders. He felt foolish when he fumbled with his zipper, wondering where his usual smooth moves had gone. Evaporated, apparently, under the heated gaze of the wide-eyed siren of a nurse.

  When he peeled off his underwear, those eyes got wider. “That’s . . . impressive.”

  He chuckled, flattered against his will. “The bandage on my thigh or the erection?”

  “I’ve seen bandages a lot bigger than that one,” she assured him.

  “What about you? You’ve been wounded, too. You should be in bed with me.” He threw back the covers and indicated the smooth, clean expanse of sheets.

  For the first time since the evening had begun, she w
as uncertain. Her lids fluttered down over her blue eyes, and she smoothed her tongue across her lips. “Yes. I suppose I should.” Reaching up, she fiddled with the twisted straps on the gown.

  When she dropped one off her shoulder, his knees gave out, and he had to sit down on the bed.

  When she dropped the other, he bit back a groan.

  Carefully she inched her arms out. For one precarious moment, the silky material clung to her breasts, then slithered down to her waist. The gown caught on her hips. She did a shimmy that sent his blood pressure through the roof.

  And the dress fell to the floor.

  She was naked. Almost naked. Except for the scrap of red silk some designer was foolish enough to call panties.

  He’d been looking at the shape of her nipples underneath that glorious red dress. Being the kind of guy who could multitask, he’d been spilling his guts about his nightmares and, at the same time, speculating about the exact shape and color of her nipples. Now he could see them, round, peach colored, flawless, those very nipples perched on the crests of two of the nicest boobies he’d ever seen.

  For the first time since that bullet had torn through his thigh, he was pain-free.

  True. He’d seen Hannah naked before. While they were in Balfour House, he had seen her showering, putting on makeup, plucking her eyebrows. Which should have turned him off, because in his experience, there was nothing like that slice of real life to take the blush off the rose.

  But no. It hadn’t worked that way with Hannah. He’d seen it all, wanted it all, and been frustrated as hell that he couldn’t touch, feel, smell, love. . . .

  Now he realized the truth. The difference between seeing her on a computer monitor and seeing her in person was breathtaking, like seeing a photo of mountains, then seeing the actual Rockies.

  And that tiny silk thong gave the whole viewing experience a special zest, like he was getting a tour in a limo.

  He took a long breath to calm himself.

  But before he had even managed to give her tits his full appreciation, she dropped the panties and stepped out. And walked toward him.

  The shape of the body surpassed the beauty of the dress. Mountains became the whole national park.