by Anne Stuart
She kissed him before he could lie. She’d been noble, she’d been careful, she’d been oh, so wise. The time had come for foolishness, for taking what she wanted, no matter how much it ended up hurting her. She was going to be hurt, anyway. She might as well take the pleasure as well as the pain. Sliding her hands between their bodies, she unfastened the buttons on his shirt. She pushed it from his shoulders, and then his chest was bare against hers, all his beautiful, golden flesh, hot and firm, the light crinkling of hair pressing against her breasts, the tightly muscled arms holding her. She dropped her hand to the waistband of his baggy white pants and hesitated. His hand covered hers, pushing it lower to the steely length of his arousal, and she moaned into his mouth with longing and a faint apprehension. But before she could change her mind he’d scooped her up, carrying her across the room with effortless ease and dropping her onto the decadent bed.
She watched him as he stripped off the rest of his clothes, and in the few seconds it took him to shuck his pants, second thoughts assailed her. “I’m making a big mistake,” she murmured, not moving.
His grin was elemental, male, and frankly possessive. “Maybe you are,” he said. “I’m doing the first smart thing I’ve done in years.” And with fast, almost feline grace, he sank onto the bed, catching her mouth with his for a swift, silencing kiss. He kissed her breasts gently, almost worshipfully, he kissed her stomach, and before she realized what he intended he’d set his mouth on the heated, longing center of her being.
She tried to push him away, but only for a moment. First her hands rested lightly on his shoulders, then tightly, then fiercely, as her body arched beneath his mouth.
He didn’t give her time to come down. Within seconds he’d sheathed himself in her clenching body, riding out the storm. When the tremors finally passed he began to move, slowly at first, pushing in deep. “Wrap your legs around me,” he whispered, and she did so, pulling him in closer, still shaking from the aftermath of what he’d given her. She opened her eyes, watching him as he moved against her, his long hair hanging over her. His body was rigid with tension and covered with sweat, and she waited, willing, aching to receive his climax, when his gaze focused for a moment and a ghost of a smile twisted his mouth.
“If you think you’re all done for the night, babe,” he whispered, “you’re wrong.” And putting his hand between their bodies he touched her, deftly, deliberately, as he surged forward once, twice, three times.
She heard the muffled cry from a distance and knew it was her own. His mouth covered hers, drinking in her cry as his body pushed her over the edge into places she’d never even dreamed existed. There was only rippling darkness, his body pulsing within hers, as every muscle, every cell in her body convulsed. It went on forever, a timeless, impossible eternity, and when she finally returned to the mattress beneath her and the man above her, the room and the noise and the New York City night, her face was wet with tears.
She tried to say something but couldn’t. His hand brushed her face, smoothing away the tears, his mouth gently brushed hers. He moved away, and she was asleep even before he pulled her body into his arms.
Chapter Ten
Laura pushed a fork in desultory fashion through her smoked duck ravioli with sweet red onion. It was close to eleven o’clock and the after-theater crowd had just surged into Whibblies, the trendy little restaurant a mere two blocks from the Glass House. She hadn’t bothered to ask Michael how he managed to get in without one of the de rigueur reservations. People like Michael Dubrovnik didn’t need reservations; they just blew their way through life, knocking everything down that stood in their path.
“What’s that sour expression for?” Michael murmured. He’d already finished his steak au poivre, devouring the blood-rare meat with almost cannibalistic gusto. He was now on his second Scotch, the moment when he’d suggested he might be indiscreet. Laura could see no signs of his guard dropping.
“I was thinking that I hadn’t seen anyone eat red meat in ages,” she observed. “Don’t you know it’s bad for you? It’ll clog your arteries and bring you to an early grave.”
He grinned. “Don’t count on it. At least, not before Dubrovnik Plaza is in place. Not unless you sprinkle arsenic over the top of my steak. Besides—” he leaned forward across the table “—did you ever doubt that I’d be a meat eater?”
“Not for a moment.” She pushed back her plate, and the perfect waiter whisked it away before she had time to blink, returning with a matching glass of Scotch. “I didn’t order this,” she said to Dubrovnik. “I was just thinking how much I’d like one, but I’m sure I didn’t order it.”
“I did.”
“Don’t!” she begged, shuddering. “I’m having troubles enough with you. Don’t start reading my mind.”
“Just anticipating your needs, Laura. It’s the duty of a good host.”
“You also think I’ll let something drop if I have a drink. Don’t count on it. I learned to hold my liquor at a very early age. I can drink most men under the table.” She took a sip of the Scotch, shivering slightly as it burned its way down her throat.
Michael’s dark blue eyes were alight with amusement. “Is that true?”
“No. But it sounded good. Actually I get emotional and silly when I drink too much. Just like everyone else.”
“I don’t get emotional and silly. I get morose.”
“It’s your Russian blood. Besides, when was the last time you drank too much?”
He shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
She sighed. “It just proves my point. You aren’t human. All evidence to the contrary, you’re simply a machine. Sort of like ‘Robocop goes to Wall Street.’ It’s no wonder I’m out of my depth with you.”
“Are you?” he countered swiftly. “Why don’t you simply give in, then? Why keep fighting, if you can’t possibly win?”
For a moment they seemed cocooned in space. The noise, the crowds surrounding them vanished. She could feel the icy coldness of the drink in her hand, still taste the sting of the peat on her tongue. She looked up at him, for once not guarding her expression. “Because I’m a fighter,” she said simply. “Whether it’s a lost cause or not, I won’t give in. I may not be able to keep the Glass House out of your hands in the long run, but I can make it as time-consuming and frustrating a process as possible.”
She half expected fury. Instead he simply shook his head, smiling wryly. “You have a real talent for that,” he agreed. “If it’s a losing battle, why waste your time? Why don’t you just drop everything and go have babies?”
“Sexist pig,” she said genially. “Not every woman is a baby machine. Why do you always come up with sexist remarks when you’re trying to irritate me?”
“It usually works with women. Sneak attack. Don’t you want babies?”
She slipped off her shoes and curled her legs beneath her on the banquette. “Why do you have this fixation with babies?”
He appeared startled. “Do I? I suppose it’s because I want them.”
“Not with me, you don’t.”
He laughed. “I wasn’t suggesting it. I imagine I’ll probably take you up on the offer you’ve been throwing at my head. Marita would have lovely babies.”
She stared at him in sudden dismay. “Are you always this calculating?”
“By calculating do you mean cold and unfeeling? I try to be. It saves a lot of wear and tear on the emotions later on,” he murmured. “What about you? You don’t strike me as someone who wears her heart on her sleeve. How much do you let emotions and hormones rule your life?”
She thought of Jeff Carnaby, busy having what she hoped was a farewell dinner with Marita. She thought of Susan’s red-rimmed eyes. And she remembered what had happened when Michael kissed her. “Not at all,” she said flatly. Believing it.
“You see? We’re two of a kind. There’s a time and a place for having a family, there’s a time and a place for having sex.”
“Usually the two go together.�
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“Wise of you to point that out. That’s why I’m planning to get married again. I want a decorative, entertaining wife and a good mother to my children.”
“Marita will be decorative,” Laura agreed. “And I suppose it depends on your definition of entertaining. But she’s a little young to be having babies.”
“She’s twenty-two. She’s in her prime.”
“Physically, perhaps. What makes you think she’ll be willing to give up that physical prime to become your baby machine?”
“The knowledge that she’ll be more than well compensated for it.”
“Why don’t you just hire a surrogate mother?” Laura snapped.
“You know as well as I do the trouble you can get into when you do that. Besides, I want a wife and a mother for my children.”
“Back to that, are we? Don’t you believe in love?”
“Do you?” he countered swiftly.
“Touché.”
“I believe in sex. In the exchange of physical pleasure between two mutually consenting adults. Do you?”
The ice in her drink had melted. There wasn’t much left of it, and what there was had gone from deep amber to a pale honey. She looked up and met his all too discerning eyes. “I imagine you know the answer to that, if you’re bothering to ask. Your private investigator must be better than I thought.”
“I hired a new one.”
She drained the watered-down whiskey. “Then you must know that I live a life of pious chastity.”
“So it would appear.”
“Are you fishing for answers? In this case, appearances are correct. I think sex is a messy, highly overrated business. It weakens the willpower, distracts the mind, and turns women into victims.” The second drink appeared in front of her. She hadn’t noticed Michael signaling for it. Her mistake. She couldn’t afford not to notice everything about him.
“What do you think it does to men?” He took a sip of his own drink, watching her out of enigmatic eyes. Gypsy eyes, Laura thought. Dangerous eyes.
“Gives them too much power.”
“If it’s messy and overrated, why would it give men power? Why wouldn’t women simply say no?”
“Biology, for one thing. Nature played a nasty trick on women. They want babies, they want nests, they want providers. Even if their brains know better, their instincts are turning on them.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
She smiled serenely, taking a sip out of her new drink and then pushing it away. “I’ve had plenty of time. Enough to know that I’m not going to let my biological instincts betray me into making any more mistakes.”
“And you called me calculating.”
“There’s a difference in being calculating when you’re in a position of power, and when you’re in what essentially is a position of weakness. You have to use everything you can when you’re nature’s victim.”
“I don’t see you as anyone’s victim.”
She looked at him across the table. At times like these it was hard to remember that he was the enemy, that he wanted to destroy what she cared most about. “Michael...”
“Mischa,” he corrected in a quiet voice.
“Mischa,” she said, not liking the sound of it in her husky voice. Not liking the ease with which her tongue slid around it. “I never will be again.”
She’d had too much to drink. Only a drink and a sip of whiskey, but she had to be drunk. There couldn’t be strands and tendrils of emotion twisting between them. He couldn’t be looking at her with such a predatory expression on his face, one that was frankly sensual. He couldn’t want her. He was a sensible man. He wanted Marita.
She shook her head, clearing away the mists, and the man across from her was once more her nemesis, a man after her beloved building and nothing more. “It’s late,” she said. “I need to get back home.”
He didn’t say a word as she slipped her four-inch heels back onto her feet and headed with perfect steadiness for the front of the restaurant. She was half afraid he’d put his hand at the small of her back, but he didn’t. He didn’t touch her at all, and for reasons she didn’t care to examine too closely, she was profoundly grateful.
“Do you ever get the feeling that people are watching you?” Laura murmured.
“They are.” They headed out of the door, standing under the awninged portico. “Because I have a lot of money, people are interested in what I do. Who I eat dinner with.”
Laura’s reaction was short and succinct. “I should have thought of that.”
“Next time you can eat at my place,” he said.
“Next time?” She considered it for a moment. “My place would be better. That way I could sprinkle arsenic on your bloody meat without you noticing.”
“I’d notice.” He looked beyond her, out into the New York City night. “Speaking of noticing, it’s pouring. Come back inside and I’ll call my driver.” This time he did reach for her, but she scuttled out of his way with more speed than grace.
“For two blocks? Don’t be ridiculous! A little rain won’t hurt you.”
Michael looked at her askance. “Have you ever walked in a New York City rain? It’s probably pure toxic waste.”
“I always walk in the rain, and I never leave the city. Come on, Mischa, don’t be a wuss. It’s a beautiful night.” And without another word she spun out into the downpour, lifting her face to the steady rain.
He tried to grab her, to pull her back under the protective awning, but she danced out of his way, graceful on her four-inch heels, laughing at him.
He stood there, glowering at her. “Are you really going to do this?”
“Absolutely. Do you want me to call you a cab?”
“No one,” he said, “calls me a wuss and gets away with it.” And he stepped out into the downpour after her.
“Good for you, Whirlwind.” She stopped and slipped off her shoes. “Take these.”
The rain was pouring down around them, plastering his black hair to his well-shaped skull. It ran in sheets down the contours of his face, illuminating the stark bone structure, the high Slavic cheekbones, the hard jaw, the slightly tilted eyes, the mobile, almost cruel mouth. Not the face of a man to play games with, Laura thought absently. Not the face of a man to dance in the rain with.
“Lighten up, Mischa,” she said. “You’re only thirty-nine years old.”
“Old enough to know better than to walk barefoot in Manhattan,” he said dourly, pocketing her small shoes and following her down the rain-drenched sidewalk at a sedate pace.
“You know, I don’t think you should marry Marita after all,” Laura said, waiting for him at the corner. “You need someone to make you do crazy things.” Her short black hair was dripping around her face, and she couldn’t see through her rain-splattered glasses. She took them off, as well, tucking them into her purse, shrugging off their lack of protection. Michael had already seen her without them, and he hadn’t attacked her in a frenzy of lust. He was hardly going to come on to her again when he was soaking wet.
“That’s exactly what I don’t need. I know why you’re doing this,” he said, crossing the street with her. “You’re trying to make sure I get pneumonia.” Almost on cue he sneezed, and belatedly Laura realized that the late-night rain was bordering on chilly. “It’s a waste of time. I could be on my deathbed and still be able to close a deal.”
“Actually I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a good idea. You might be able to close a multimillion dollar deal on your deathbed, but I bet you can’t even answer your own telephone when you have a cold. Men are such wimps.”
“No one calls me a wimp and gets away with it, either,” Michael snapped.
Laura stopped in the middle of the empty sidewalk, shoving her wet hair behind her ears and grinning at him. “I just did.”
He lunged for her, but she dodged nimbly. “Do you want me to mug someone for their umbrella?” she inquired solicitously.
“Don’t bother.” His
tone was low and threatening as he advanced on her, and she suddenly doubted her ability to escape.
“What are you planning to do?” She stood her ground, letting the rain sluice over her as she watched him approach.
“I’m tempted to shove you in front of a taxi,” he muttered direly. “But I don’t think one’s going to show up. So I have only one option.”
“What’s that?”
“Race you home.” He took off, leaping ahead, but Laura was fast on his heels. What she lacked in the length of her stride she made up for by being shoeless. She caught up with him at the corner of Sixty-sixth Street, passed him by the deli, and was leaning against the glass panels of her beloved building when he reached her.
She’d sprinted and was out of breath and laughing at him as he stopped, breathless himself, no longer grim, no longer angry. But still, even to Laura’s untrained eye, very dangerous.
He was too fast for her. Before she had the faintest idea what he was going to do, he’d pulled her into his arms. Her laughter faded into silence as his mouth covered hers, wet from the rain, tasting faintly of whiskey.
She was too startled, too breathless, to react as she should have. Instinctively she put her arms around him, and suddenly he lifted her, swinging her around, away from the shelter of the building and out into the pouring rain again. She clung to him, half out of dizziness, half out of a sneaking, self-destructive streak she couldn’t fight anymore. Damn it, she wanted to kiss him. And kiss him she did, opening her mouth to his as the rain poured down around them.
It was over too soon. He released her mouth, released her body, letting it slide down his length, the soaked, ruined silk of her dress rubbing against the soaked, ruined linen of his suit until her stockinged feet rested once more on the sidewalk. “Better watch those animal instincts, Laura,” he whispered, his eyes dark and glittering in the light from the street. “I think you need to slap them down.”