by Anne Stuart
“Don’t be ridiculous, Blackheart.” Her words were brisk, her tone breathless as his hands gently brushed the hair away from her face. She couldn’t help herself, she turned her face into that hand and kissed his palm.
“Give me another reason, Francesca,” he said, his voice low and husky and unbearably seductive. “Just one.”
She was struggling hard; her Catholic mother would be proud of her. “I don’t trust you,” she said. “Do you want to go to bed with a woman who doesn’t trust you?”
“No,” he said, his hands cupping her face and holding it still. “But I saw you jump tonight, Francesca. You couldn’t have done it if you didn’t trust me.” His lips feathered hers, lightly, tantalizingly, and she found herself reaching for more. “Could you, Francesca?”
“No,” she murmured against his mouth. “Yes.” She no longer knew what she was saying, but she liked the sound of the latter. “Yes,” she said again, kissing him. “Yes, yes, yes.”
She was glad the lights were out, glad she wouldn’t have to see the look of cynical triumph that must be on his face. It was all an act, a sophisticated, manipulative act to get one more notch on his list of bedmates. So why were his hands shaking as he pulled the close-fitting turtleneck jersey over her head and tossed it in the corner? Why was his heart pounding as fast as hers, his lips traveling over her face as if he wanted to memorize her features with his mouth? And why was the tightly strung tension in his body transmuting into a pure sexual tension that trapped her within its threads?
Somehow she had gotten pressed up against the wall, the grainy texture of the plaster cool and rough against her bare back. He’d unfastened her bra and disposed of it, and his mouth traveled down her collarbone, his tongue slipping over her satin skin, enticing, arousing, worshipping, as his hands caught the zipper of her black denim pants and drew it downward. His hands pulled the jeans off her hips, sliding them down her long, trembling legs, and she was grateful for the support of the wall behind her. She stepped out of the crumpled jeans, and it wasn’t until his hands reached her hips again that she realized he’d taken her panties with him, and she was naked.
His hands cradled her hips, the long fingers easily encircling their ripe contours, as his mouth moved slowly, sensuously across her bare stomach. She felt like a pagan goddess with Blackheart kneeling in front of her, slowly worshipping her body with his mouth and fingers. She felt decadent and sinful and gloriously alive, and when his mouth sank lower to the tangled heat of her, her heart and soul emptied in a rush of pleasure so heady that she had to brace herself against his strong shoulders or lose her balance.
This was new to her, and unbearable, sweetly glorious. Her body trembled against his mouth, and the world began to slip away, bit by bit, until it finally shattered in a tumbled rush, and her body convulsed in a white-hot heat of love.
She was falling, falling, and she cried out. But he was there, warm and solid and loving, catching her against his hard body, and she hid her face against his shoulder, frightened of her sudden vulnerability.
He held her until the trembling ceased, held her until she somehow found the courage to lift her head and look at him, half fearfully. There was no trace of cynical triumph in the shadowy darkness of his face, no cool calculation. There was nothing but love and desire in those eyes of his, a love and desire that mirrored her own.
A moment later she was swung up high, and he was carrying her through the darkened apartment with the sureness of a cat. He laid her down on the bed, stripping off his clothes with thoughtless grace before stretching out beside her. She felt lazy, sensual and well loved, but the sight of his strong, slim, absolutely beautiful body sent the slow-burning embers of desire glowing into a brighter flame. With a shy sort of boldness she reached out for him, relearning the planes and hollows of his body with a wondering delight. In the darkness there were no rules, no pride, no ego and no fear. No safety, either, but the most elemental trust. He needed her on every level that existed, and that need was her delight.
He moved to cover her, lean and strong and powerful, and she reached up, wrapping her arms around him, drawing him into her heart, into her life, into her body. Her sigh of pure pleasure met his, and then his mouth covered hers as he suddenly turned deliciously, playfully rough, arousing her to a fever pitch that left no room for anything but the heated, pulsing, shattering intensity that swept between them like wildfire.
Their love was fast and furious, a celebration and a culmination of the tension and danger they had shared, washed clean by love and sweat. She was reaching, reaching for a summit that was somehow beyond her, and he was there with her, holding her, helping her as they reached it, and together they fell. He collapsed against her, and for the first time that night she felt the tension drain from his body.
Ferris wanted to cling to him forever, wanted to keep her arms and legs wrapped around him, holding him tight against her. But he began to stir, restlessly, and she knew she had no choice but to let him go.
He rolled away from her, leaving her alone in the darkness. A moment later he was lying back against the sheets, and his breathing was still uneven. Ferris realized suddenly that he hadn’t said a word since he’d begun to make love to her. It had all been silent and intense, and she had the sudden, age-old need for reassurance.
Blackheart wasn’t the man to give it. They lay together in the darkness for a long time, not touching, and then Blackheart reached out and turned on the bedside light. Ferris blinked at the sudden brightness. When she could focus, she wished she’d kept her eyes shut. On Blackheart’s face was the cynical expression she’d dreaded.
He yawned, stretching, and gave her a distant, cool smile. “There’s nothing better than a little quick sex after a job,” he drawled. “The perfect way to wind down, don’t you think?”
She stared at him for a long moment as a tiny part of her heart started to wither and die. And then her head snapped up, her backbone stiffened and she pulled herself into a sitting position, doing her level best to ignore her nudity.
“Cut it the hell out, Blackheart,” she shot back, determinedly unmoved. “You don’t fool me with that crap.”
If she expected to shock him she was disappointed. Blackheart was unshockable. But that cold look vanished from his eyes, and the smile warmed up several degrees. “What crap?” he inquired pleasantly. His nudity was a lot harder to ignore than her own, but gamely she persevered.
“Don’t try to pretend you took me to bed to wind down,” she said severely. “That’s hogwash, and you know it.”
His smile broadened. “Then why don’t you tell me why I did take you to bed? Not that I approve of that terminology. Whether you like it or not, it was mutual.”
“Did you hear any complaints?” Ferris said dangerously.
“No. So why did we have sex?” He crossed his arms behind his head, prepared to be entertained, and for a moment she contemplated mayhem. It had been a long time since she’d hit anybody, but now might be the time to start.
Well, maybe she deserved it, she thought forlornly. But she wasn’t going to give up without a fight. “We didn’t have sex, Blackheart,” she said flatly. “We made love. There’s a difference.”
“And that difference is very clear to one of your great experience?”
She sat there, looking at him out of frustrated eyes for a long moment. “Blackheart,” she said wearily, “I’m in love with you. You know it—you’ve probably known longer than I have. So stop playing these stupid games.”
Blackheart just watched her, and she couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. “And what does this mythical love entail?” he said finally, in a bored voice. But Ferris knew he was far from bored.
“For God’s sake, Blackheart, give me a break! I’ve given you my virginity after fighting off scores of determined men, I’ve turned to a life of crime for your sake, and I’ve leape
d tall buildings in a single bound. What more do you want?” she demanded, desperate.
He grinned at her, and sudden relief washed over her. It was going to be all right. It might take some time, but it was going to be all right. “So you love me, do you?”
“Yes.”
“What about the good senator?”
“The good senator will have to look elsewhere for a suitable . . . senatress,” she said finally.
He still watched her out of those distant eyes. “Scores of men, eh?”
“Hundreds,” she replied.
He cocked his head, as if weighing her. “All right, wench. If you love me, come here and prove it.”
She sat very still. After all, there were limits. “You come here,” she said sternly.
And he did.
Chapter Twenty
FERRIS LIKED SHEETS. She’d never noticed before, not really. To be sure, she’d bought pretty sets for her own bed, dribbled chocolate and ice cream and even spaghetti sauce on them on occasion. But she’d never noticed their erotic potential.
Mind you, having Blackheart’s sleeping body between them, pressed up against hers, helped. He had particularly nice sheets, she thought dreamily. Navy blue, with white piping. It made his skin look gloriously golden, and she wanted to touch the rumpled brown hair against the pillow.
He’d look nice in charcoal-gray sheets, she mused, snuggling closer with the subconscious hope of waking him. Or maybe beige. He’d even looked glorious against the tiny blue-and-white flowers that had decorated her bed.
If she had a lover, she thought lazily, or a husband, she wouldn’t waste money on sexy nightclothes that would end up on the floor before long. She’d buy sheets. All colors and patterns, deep rose and black and purple and yellow. Flowers and stripes and solids, cottons and satins and flannels. The very image made her giddy with anticipation.
Was she going to have a husband or lover? Blackheart looked angelic when he slept, but he’d given her no clue last night. She’d presented him with her heart and soul, and he’d accepted them willingly enough. But he hadn’t offered anything in return. Not yet. Would he?
It was too early to wake up. Dawn was just creeping over the rooftops, the sun fighting its way through another gray, misty day. It hadn’t been that long ago when Blackheart had fallen asleep. If she was going to be worth anything, she’d better try to sleep herself. She and Blackheart had a long way to go. She’d need all her wits and her energy to get there.
He was so warm under the cool blue sheet. Turning over, she pressed up against him. One arm came around her waist, pulling her back against him. “Love,” he murmured in her ear. She tensed, waiting for something else. But the rhythm of his breathing told her he was sound asleep, and his murmured word could have meant nothing. Or something too important to bear. Ferris sighed, closing her eyes against the brightening sunlight, and drifted off.
FOUR HOURS LATER he looked down at her, sleeping so peacefully in the center of the dark blue sheets. She looked good there, with her thick mane of hair spread out around her. She looked like she belonged.
And he belonged there in bed with her. The last thing he felt like doing right now was trying to convince a stubborn SFPD that Olivia Summers was the jewel thief, not him. And despite what he’d said last night, he wasn’t any too certain he was going to be able to do it, even with the jewels in place.
The last thing he felt like doing was returning to the precinct that had held him with such unrestrained glee a few short days ago. If it were up to him, he’d never set foot inside a police station again.
The last few days had brought home the hard-learned lesson of his life. Never again could he stand the suffocating, demoralizing, slow death of prison. He’d flirted with the idea that he could go back to the rooftops any time he wanted, as long as his leg could support him. Last night had proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that he could scramble over all the rooftops he wanted. The magic touch was still there, and his body still did his bidding.
But his luck was gone, and his options with it. He’d lost his innocence as surely as the woman in his bed had lost hers, and things would never be the same and it was past time for him to face up to things.
When he looked at his life devoid of any illusions it was more than clear to him that he no longer wanted to make his living from other people’s possessions, and hadn’t for a long, long time. The fall and the shattered knee had been an excuse, a welcome one. The prison sentence had done more harm than good—he’d stubbornly refused to let someone else make that decision for him. But if it hadn’t been the fall, it would have been something else, sooner or later. John Patrick Blackheart had been more than ready to settle down, and last night was his last fling.
How would Ferris-Francesca react when he told her? And he’d have to tell her, sooner or later. Though he hated like hell to give her that trust when she was still withholding hers. If it hadn’t been for her sudden excess of morality, he could have gone through life with only that one arrest marring his career. But then he might have gone through his life never having faced the welcome end to his inherited profession. In the last few days he’d finally faced who and what he was, and who and what he wanted. And the woman in his bed was part and parcel of that wanting.
Kate was meeting him downtown. Trace would be with her, she’d said, and Blackheart’s interest had been piqued. Had she already told him? How would he react to Kate’s treachery? Knowing Trace, he’d be surprised if the big moose was anything less than sympathetic. Trace never blamed anybody for anything, just accepted people, warts and all. Pray God things went as they should, and he wouldn’t have to pay for his trusting nature.
And once that was settled, then maybe he could figure out what he was going to do with Francesca-Ferris Berdahofski-Byrd. He didn’t for one moment believe that she loved him. Her religion and her working-class upbringing had taught her that you have to love the man you sleep with. He had given in to overwhelming temptation, seduced her and voila, true love! It would take care and time to elicit the real thing from her.
But that was exactly what he intended to do, once he got Olivia Summers sorted out. Because even if he didn’t trust Ferris’s protestations of true love, he knew exactly what he was feeling. For the first time in his life, in thirty-six misspent, fairly promiscuous years, he had fallen in love. And he wasn’t about to give up without a fight.
Neither was she. The memory of her drawling, cutting temper last night still made him grin. He thought he was going to keep her at arm’s length, maybe teach her a lesson or two. She should know what it felt like, to make soul-shattering love and then have your partner look at you with complete distrust. It still smarted, even though part of him couldn’t blame her. Things had looked suspicious. But damn it, she should have trusted him.
Well, she trusted him now. Now that she’d seen the proof with her own eyes, heard it from Kate. And she’d trusted him enough to follow him up on that roof when she was petrified of heights. If he’d had any idea, he wouldn’t have made her go.
But she’d gone, without a word, and he loved her for it. And he loved her for her messy apartment, her temper and her lopsided morality. He could go on, making a list of all the things he loved about her. But now wasn’t the time. He could save that for some night when he was alone and couldn’t sleep for wanting her. That time would come sooner than he wanted. Francesca Berdahofski wasn’t going to give up being Mrs. Senator Phillip Merriam without a struggle, no matter what she said in the heat of passion. He’d just have to take every unfair advantage he could think of, to make sure she ended up with him and not in Washington. It was all for her own good, he thought righteously.
She needed her sleep, but he couldn’t resist. Leaning down, he kissed her on the soft curve of her jaw, trailing his mouth up to her high cheekbone, glancing off her brow and ending on one closed eyelid. The eyelid flutter
ed open, and she smiled up at him, shyly, sleepily, and he almost jumped back on top of her.
“I’ll be back,” he said, trying to keep a disinterested tone in his voice. “I’m not sure when.”
“I’ll be here.” She frowned sleepily. “If that’s all right?”
“You stay. If you’re gone I’ll find you.” It came out sounding almost like a threat, and he could have cursed himself. Ferris didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. Smiling, she closed her eyes and fell back asleep.
If you’re gone I’ll find you, he echoed to himself grimly. Fine. Real cool, Blackheart. That’s just the way to keep a distance from her. Next you’ll be proposing again, and then where will you be? Up a creek without a paddle. And without Francesca. Damn.
It was all he could do to keep himself from slamming the door behind him. He closed it very silently, turning the three locks. He’d have to do something about her apartment. He didn’t want anyone else breaking in there. It was his domain, and she was his woman. It might take some time, but sooner or later she’d come to terms with that. Please God it was sooner, or he still might have to rip out Phillip Merriam’s tongue.
IT WAS PAST NOON when she finally decided to wake up. Each time she opened her eyes earlier she’d reached out for Blackheart and he hadn’t been there. She could think of no reason for getting up without him, though she probably would have been even more loath if he’d been with her. But high noon was getting just too decadent to be believed, and her stomach was putting up a noisy protest.
“Damn,” she said out loud to the silent apartment, throwing back the cool blue sheets and staring around her. Her stomach replied with a grumble, and she moaned. Every muscle in her body ached, both from the unexpected romp over San Francisco’s rooftops and the romp that followed. She needed a hot bath and a huge amount of food, not necessarily in that order. And then she needed Blackheart.
