by Nora Roberts
again, he or she would come up empty.”
“If it’s as harmless as that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean someone might feel a bigger stake in all this.” Watching her, he sat on the edge of the desk. “Take Gloria DuBarry’s behavior the other night.”
Julia shrugged. “She was drunk.”
“Exactly—that itself is an anomaly. I’ve never seen Gloria so much as tipsy, much less sloppy drunk.” He picked up a paperweight, a faceted globe of crystal that exploded with lights as he turned it. He wondered if Julia would do that—turn from cool and quiet to hot and explosive at the proper touch. “She was warning you off. Why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t,” she insisted when he only continued to stare. “Her name hasn’t come up in my sessions with Eve, except in passing. And today we talked about other things.” Eve’s scheduled trip to Georgia, Peter Jackson’s buns, Brandon’s upcoming test in social studies, and Julia’s semiannual urge to whack off her hair. Eve had talked her out of it.
Blowing out a long breath, she dropped into the chair.
“Gloria, seemed to think I was going to write something that threatened her reputation. She even offered to pay me off—though I think she’d have preferred to kill me off.” When his eyes narrowed, she groaned. “For God’s sake, Paul, I was being sarcastic.” Then she laughed and leaned back, setting the chair rocking. “I can see you writing the scene now. Gloria DuBarry, dressed in the nun’s habit she wore in McReedy’s Little Devils, creeps up behind the intrepid biographer. I hope you put me in something scant and slinky after all these hours I’ve spent toning up the bod. She hefts a knife—no, too messy. Pulls a .22—no, too ordinary. Ah, she lunges forward and strangles her victim with her rosary beads.” Steepling her fingers, she grinned over them. “How’s that?”
“Not nearly as funny as you’d like it to be.” He set the crystal aside. “Julia, I want you to let me listen to the tapes.”
The chair snapped back. “You know I can’t do that.”
“I want to help you.”
There was such strained patience in his voice, she couldn’t resist reaching out to touch her hand to his. “I appreciate the offer, Paul, but I don’t think I need any help.”
He looked down to where her hand lay slender, delicate, on his. “If you did, would you tell me?”
Because she wanted to be sure to tell them both the truth, she waited a moment. “Yes.” Then she smiled, realizing it wasn’t so difficult, or so risky, to trust someone. “Yes, I would.”
“At least I have an answer.” He turned his hand over, gripping hers before she could pull away. “If you thought Eve needed help?”
This time there was no hesitation. “You’d be the first one I’d tell.”
Satisfied, he put that part of the problem aside as he would a plot device needing time to brew. “Now I want to ask you something else.”
Figuring the hard part was over, she relaxed. “And I keep thinking I’m going to get the interview.”
“You’ll get your turn. Do you believe I care about you?”
She couldn’t say the question came out of left field, but that didn’t make it any easier to handle the ball. “Right now I do.”
The simple sentence told him much more than a yes or no. “Has everything in your life been so temporary?”
His hand was much too firm on hers, the palm rougher than was expected of a man who worked with words. While she could have resisted the hold, she couldn’t resist his eyes. If it was impossible to lie to Fritz, it was useless to lie to Paul. Those eyes would see right through to the truth.
“I suppose, except for Brandon, it has.”
“Is that the way you want it?” he asked, uneasy that it was so important he know.
“I haven’t really thought about it.” She rose, hoping to back away from an edge that seemed to be sneaking closer while she wasn’t looking. “I haven’t had to.”
“Now you do.” He cupped her face with his free hand. “And I believe it’s time I did something to make you start thinking about it.”
He kissed her, much as he had the last time, with too much passion, traces of anger, hints of frustration. He tugged her closer, continuing the rapid, reckless assault on her senses. To his pleasure he could feel, actually feel her skin warming as the blood raced close to the surface. Unbearably arousing was the faint taste of panic as her mouth opened for his.
He caged her hips between his thighs, his teeth nipping, nibbling at her lips, his tongue stroking between them! She heard her own groan of pleasure as he slipped his hands under her shirt to run them up and down her spine.
Her skin was going hot, then cold, shivering and sweating under his touch. But the fear was passing, too weak an emotion to compete with all the others he forced into her. Needs, so long ignored, rose up like a tidal wave to wash everything away. Everything but him.
She seemed to be floating, clinging to him as she glided inches above the floor. She could imagine herself drifting endlessly like this, steeped in sensation, weak—weak enough to be guided by someone else.
When he dipped his head to slick those hot kisses along her throat, she saw that she wasn’t floating at all, but being led slowly out of the office, into the living room, to the base of the stairs.
That was reality. In the real world being led too often equaled surrender.
“Where are we going?” Was that her voice, that throaty, breathless murmur?
“This time, this first time, you need a bed.”
“But …” She tried to clear her head, but his mouth skimmed back to hers. “It’s the middle of the morning.”
His laugh was quick and as unsteady as his pulse. He was half wild to get his hands on her, to feel her under him, to feel himself inside her. “God, you’re sweet.” Then his eyes flashed back to hers. “I want more, Julia. You’ve got one chance to tell me what you want.” He tugged off her sweatshirt and let it drop at the top of the stairs. Beneath it she wore nothing but the lingering scent of soap and perfumed oils. “Do you want me to wait until sundown?”
She let out a little cry, part alarm, part delight as his hand closed over her. “No.”
He had her back to the wall, letting those rough, clever hands do the seducing. His breath was heaving as if he’d scaled a mountain rather than a staircase. She felt it flutter hot over her throat, her cheek, into her mouth.
She was small and firm in his hands, and smooth as lake water. He knew he’d go mad if he didn’t taste that soft, trembling flesh. “What do you want, Julia?”
“This.” Her mouth moved frantically under his. And now it was she pulling him away from the wall and into the bedroom. “You.” When she reached for the buttons of his shirt, her fingers were shaking. She fumbled, swore. God, she needed to touch him. Wherever this terrible hunger had come from, it was burning her up from the inside out. “I can’t—it’s been so long.” Finally she let her clumsy hands drop and closed her eyes on the humiliation.
“You’re doing fine.” He’d nearly laughed, but he’d seen she’d had no idea what her frantic, inexpert attempts were doing to him. For him. “Relax, Julia,” he murmured as he lay her on the bed. “The best things always come back to you.”
The best she could manage was a small, panicked smile. His body was like iron over hers. “They say that about riding bikes, too, but I tend to lose my balance and fall off.”
He traced his tongue along her jaw, stunned by the way her single quick tremor racked his system. “I’ll let you know if you start to wobble.”
When she reached for him again, he braceleted her wrists in his hand and made love to her fingers. Too fast, he berated himself as he watched her in the light that slanted through the blinds. He’d been rushing her, fueled by his own needs. She needed care, and patience, and whatever tenderness he had to give.
Something had changed. She wasn’t certain what it was, but the mood had altered. The grinding in her stomach had become a quic
kening—every bit as exciting, but so much sweeter. His touch was no longer possessive, but experimental, fingers cruising over her. When he kissed her, the frustration was gone, and there was persuasion. Irresistible.
He could feel her relax, muscle by muscle, until she was like hot wax melting beneath him. He hadn’t known that kind of surrender, that level of trust could make him feel like a hero.
So he wanted to give her more, show her more. Promise her more.
Slowly, his eyes on her face, he drew the band from her hair so that it fanned dark gold over the rose-colored spread. As her lips opened, he touched his to them, but softly, waiting for her to deepen that most basic and complex of contacts. When her tongue sought his, he sank in.
Arousal clouded her mind, racked her breathing. Though her fingers still trembled, she fought his buttons loose, letting out a long sigh of satisfaction as she felt his flesh slide over hers. With her eyes closed she thought she could hear his heartbeat vying with the pace of her own for speed.
A cloak of sensation covered her, a misty veil that allowed her to do as she wished with her mouth and hands, without hesitation or regret. Feed ravenously. Yes, she would. A soul that had known hunger for so long understood greed as well as abstinence. She wanted the feast.
Her lips, fully tempted, raced over his face, down his throat, as she filled herself with the rich animal flavor of man. He said something, fast and harsh, and she heard her own laugh, a laugh that ended on a gasp when he pressed desperately against her, center to center.
When his tongue flicked over the point of her breast, that sharp pleasure had her arching beneath him, body straining up as the vibrations sang through her. The scrape of his teeth, the sudden greed of his mouth, the glory of the ageless hunger for the taste of flesh. With a groan caught deep in her throat she pressed his head against her, demanding and offering what he had asked for. More.
And this was a freedom, this heedless grasping of desires, that she had denied, even spurned, for so long.
The air around them was redolent with the perfume of the camelias in the bowl on her nightstand. Beneath them, the bed moaned as they tumbled over it. The sun creeping in through the blinds turned the light a warm and seductive gold. Whenever he touched her, that light would explode behind her heavy lids into fractured rainbows.
This was where he wanted her, climbing slowly toward the peak of passions. Clamping down hard on the need to take, he gave, he teased, he tormented—and was given the satisfaction of hearing his name erupt from her lips.
Her skin was smooth as silk, fragrant from the oils that had been worked so diligently into her muscles. Wanting all of it, he tugged the pants over her hips, groaning when he found her naked beneath the sweats.
Yet he found he could wait, still longer, contenting himself with the feel of those long, slim thighs under his hands. The taste of them against his lips. When he shifted, the slightest touch had her leaping over the edge where he’d held her, and soaring beyond.
The climax ripped through her, then left her stunned and dazed and staggered. After such a gentle introduction, the torrid pleasure was terrifying. And addicting. Even as she groped for him, he drove her up again and watched her eyes glaze over with passion, felt her body shudder from the thrill of it, heard her breath catch from the shock, expel from the glory.
As she went limp, he levered himself over her, his own body trembling as he waited for her heavy eyes to open, meet his. He slid inside her. She rose to meet him. Iron into velvet. Merged, they moved together, the rhythm instinctive, ancient, beautiful. When her lids shuddered down again, her arms opened to bring him close. This time when she leapt off the edge, she took him with her.
He lay quiet, still steeped in her. The scent of her skin, heated with passion, drifted through his senses and merged with the fragile fragrance of the camelias. The light, shadowed by the blinds, seemed neither of day nor night, but of some timeless space hidden between. Captured in his arms, her body moved gently, softly, with each quiet breath she took. When he lifted his head he could see her face, the glow of passion still flushing it. He had only to kiss her mouth to taste those warm and sweet remnants of mutual pleasure.
He had thought he knew romance, understood it, appreciated it. How many times had he used it to seduce a woman? How often had he woven it cleverly into a plot? But this was different. This time—or this woman—had taken it all to another plane. He intended to make her understand that they would both go there together, again and again.
“I told you it would come back to you.”
Her eyes opened slowly. They were huge and dark and sleepy. She smiled. It was no use telling him nothing had come back, because she had never experienced anything like what they had just shared.
“Is that similar to was it good for you?”
His grin flashed before he nipped her earlobe. “It’s saying a lot more than that. In fact, I was just thinking that we could have a very productive day if neither of us moved from this spot.”
“Productive?” She let her fingers comb through his hair, dance down his spine as he nuzzled her throat. She didn’t feel like the cat who’d licked up the cream, but like the one who’d discovered a direct line to the cow. “Interesting, maybe. Enjoyable, certainly, but productive’s another matter. My interview with Anna should—mmm—be productive.” Lazily, she glanced toward the clock. On a quick cry, she struggled to get up, only to be held firmly in place. “It’s eleven-fifteen. How can it be eleven-fifteen? It was only a little past nine when we—”
“Time flies,” he murmured, more than a little flattered. “You’ll never make it.” “But—”
“It’ll take you the better part of an hour to get dressed and make the drive. Reschedule.”
“Shit. This is completely unprofessional.” She wiggled free and hauled open the drawer of the nightstand to search for the number. “It’ll be my own fault if she refuses to give me another chance.”
“I like you like this,” he said as she dragged at the phone. “All hot and frazzled.”
“Be quiet while I think.” After pushing the hair out of her eyes, she punched in the number, then let out a gasp.
Paul merely grinned and continued to nibble on her toes. “Sorry. This is one particular fantasy I’ve got to fulfill.”
“Now’s hardly the time—” Pleasure arrowed in, had her head jerking back. “Paul, please. I have to … oh, God! What?” She fought to catch her breath as the receptionist repeated the standard greeting. “Yes, I’m sorry.” He was working on her other foot now, sliding his tongue over the arch. Jesus, who would have thought sensation could ripple out from there all the way to her hairline? “I—this is Julia Summers. I have an eleven-thirty with Ms. del Rio.” He was up to her ankles now. Julia heard the blood roaring in her head. “I, ah, I need to reschedule. I’ve had a …” Hot, open-mouthed kisses along her calf. “An unexpected emergency. Unavoidable. Please give Ms….”
“Del Rio,” Paul supplied, then grazed his teeth over the back of her knee. Julia’s fingers knotted in the tangled sheets.
“Give her my apologies, and tell her …” A trail of hot, wet kisses up her inner thigh. “Tell her I’ll get back to her. Thank you.”
The phone clattered to the floor.
Drake gave the guard at the gate a cheery salute. As he drove through, he began digging at his thighs and grinding his teeth. Nerves had brought on an itchy, spreading rash that none of the over-the-counter creams and lotions he’d applied helped. By the time he’d arrived at the guest house he was whimpering and talking to himself.
“It’s gonna be all right. Nothing to worry about. In and out in five minutes and everything’s fixed up.” Sweat trickled, turning his raw thighs into a blazing agony.
There were forty-eight hours left until his deadline. The image of what Joseph could do to him with those big cinder-block fists was enough to have him sprinting out of the car.
It was safe. At least he was sure of that. Eve was in Bur-bank filming,
and Julia was off interviewing the witch Anna. All he had to do was walk in, dub the tapes, then walk out.
It took him nearly a full minute of rattling the doorknob to realize the place was locked. With the breath whistling through his teeth, he raced around the house, checking all the windows and doors. By the time he got back to his starting point, he was dripping with sweat.
He couldn’t go away empty-handed. No matter how well Drake deluded himself, he knew he would never find the nerve to come back. It had to be now. Raking his fingers over his blazing thighs, he made it to the terrace in a stumbling run. He cast furtive glances over his shoulder as he picked up a small clay pot of petunias. The tinkle of breaking glass seemed as loud to him as the boom of an assault rifle, but the marines didn’t come come running in counterattack.
The pot dropped from his nerveless fingers to shatter on the terrace stones. Still watching his back, he reached in through the hole he’d made and tripped the latch.
Standing inside the empty house brought him a tingle of satisfaction and bolstered his courage. As he moved from kitchen to office, his stride was firm and confident. He was smiling when he opened the drawer. His eyes went blank for a moment, then he laughed to himself and pulled open another drawer. And another.
The smile had turned to a grimace as he continued to yank open the empty drawers and ram them shut again.
Julia couldn’t remember ever having a single interview exhaust her as much as her session with Anna. The woman was like an LP run on 78. Julia had a feeling she might find some interesting and entertaining tidbits mired in the orgy of words Anna had indulged in—once she had the energy to review the tape.
