To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  “I’m not familiar with constellations, Mr. Tanner. I simply enjoy starlight for what it is.” She heard the quaver in her voice—he was standing much too close!

  “Did anyone ever tell you that when you blush it’s like roses in the snow? Pink roses.” His voice was low, intimate, keeping her from turning to face him. As Chelsea Myles, actress, she’d had enough experience with men to know how to handle them, but as Chelsea Harris, gentle woman, she couldn’t possibly be familiar with the necessary language. She would have to discourage Quaid Tanner some other way; it would simply take a little longer.

  “Did I ever tell you you look very familiar to me?” he said, and his words made Chelsea’s skin prickle. “I know I’ve seen you, but I also know we were never properly introduced. I would remember if we had been. No, it has to be that I’ve noticed you somewhere, although it seems to me that the circumstances must have been unusual.”

  “Unusual?”

  “Yes. You must have been dressed differently. I don’t seem to place you walking the Strand or shopping near the East India House. No, it was something quite different. Perhaps it was at the theater, come to think of it,” he mused aloud.

  Chelsea thought the deck was going to rise and hit her in the face. The theater! How many theaters had she performed in? Who could know every face in the audience? She felt herself trembling. For twenty-four hours she had posed as Honaria, eaten at the captain’s table, made acquaintances. If Tanner recalled where he’d seen her and revealed her, she would spend three months abroad this ship as an outcast. It would be unbearable. What did he want? What would it take to keep him quiet?

  “Yes, perhaps it was at the theater. I admit to being a devotee,” she braved, holding her breath, waiting for his next statement. When it came, it rocked her to the core.

  “No, no, it couldn’t be. I’ve only been in London for a short time and never attended the theater…. Just a minute, yes, I did. It was a rather disreputable production of The Merchant of Venice, I think. I remember a woman had had her purse stolen and made quite a scene about it. I tell you, Mrs. Harris, I will never forget the expression on that poor woman’s face!”

  Chelsea’s heart began to pound, but her quick mind warned her not to admit to anything. This was exactly what she didn’t want! To be known as an actress, to be labeled once again, to be forced beneath the standards of respectable society. It had been her intention to ask Honoria not to mention that she knew Chelsea was an actress, but here was someone who owed her nothing, nothing at all. With a sense of deep foreboding she turned to face him; he was so near she caught the scent of the dinner’s wine on his breath. “What do you want?” she asked him, her tone cold and dead.

  There was a flash of white teeth in the darkness; she felt him move closer, and just when she thought he was going to put his arms around her, he pressed his hands against the rail on either side of her, trapping her between them. “What do you think I want?” he asked softly, dangerously.

  Alarm swept through Chelsea; she hadn’t expected him to be so cavalier. In fact, she had hoped he would do the gentlemanly thing and take pity on her. She had gone too far, she could tell by the dark look in his eyes. This was not some schoolboy who could be twirled around her little finger. This was a man with no trace of the boy left in him. She was frightened, yet excited. Raising her head slightly, she locked her gaze with his, matching insolence with insolence. “You haven’t answered me, Mr. Tanner.”

  Quaid’s lips tightened into a thin line. He hadn’t counted on having her stand her ground with him, almost mocking him. He had expected her to demur, pretend not to understand his double entendre. Now it seemed it was Chelsea who was enjoying herself—and at his expense. It wasn’t that he’d meant any harm, and truth to tell, he wasn’t a man who went about ruining a woman’s reputation. It was just that she was so damned amusing when he deviled her. But now it had gone too far. Or had it? Quaid found himself wondering just how far she would go to keep her secret. “You haven’t told me what you’re offering, Mrs. Harris.”

  A slow flush crept up Chelsea’s neck and stained her cheeks. No doubt he was contemplating how and where he could get her alone without anyone learning about it. The look in his eyes told her he wanted more than just a daring kiss in the shadows. Oh, yes—this man would demand much, much more.

  The flush on Chelsea’s face faintly surprised Quaid. That she was lovely was unmistakable. He looked down at her hand, which was clasped near her bosom. The skin was smooth and white, but the nails were clipped short. It was a graceful hand, but not that of a pampered lady; this young woman was obviously used to working, something Quaid had to respect. Her chestnut hair shone with redgold highlights under the light of the lantern, and her fair skin, freshened by the sea breezes, was smooth and flawless. He knew she was an actress, and not a very good one at that, and he also knew that her occupation alone cast doubt upon her breeding and character. But there was also an undeniable air of quality about her. It was easy to believe she was well-placed and finely bred. Her voice was soft and naturally musical, her movements confident and graceful, her actions and carriage very much those of a lady.

  But when he looked into her face, as he did now, he saw something far more exciting. Her mouth seemed to be made for kissing, prettily pouted, inviting. Her eyes were deep and tawny, lighting with merriment when the mood struck her, as during dinner, and flashing with fury when she grew angry.

  His bold, speculative glance strayed to her bodice and the revealing cut of her wine-colored gown. Ripe, full breasts jutted provocatively, inviting a man’s hand to caress them.

  Chelsea could feel Quaid’s eyes devouring her in the dark, and a sense of panic gripped her. What would he demand for his silence? What price would she pay? She could hate him for what he was doing to her, but she had learned early in life that everything she ever wanted had to be paid for—and at the same time she had also been taught that life was a series of bargains and compromises.

  “You haven’t answered me, Mrs. Harris. What are you offering?”

  Her hand crept up to her throat and then to her ears, fingering one of Honoria’s diamond ear studs. Somehow, some way, she would repay Honoria, she swore to herself.

  “Jewels, Mrs. Harris? Oh, no, I want something much more precious.” He moved closer, aware of the fragrance of her lemon-scented soap, and of something else, something more elusive.

  The movement of the ship bracing through the waves seemed to rock Chelsea as she stood, captured between his arms, glaring up at him brazenly. She was unaware of the glittering stars and the orange sliver of moon that lit the forecastle deck. His nearness, his intimate demand, the danger she saw flashing in his eyes—these swamped her senses and filled her soul. He was playing with her, she knew, a cat-and-mouse game she had no chance of winning. One way or another Quaid Tanner would strike the bargain, and she would keep it.

  Chelsea’s eyes blazed and seemed to spew hatred with such an intensity that Quaid was taken aback, causing him to remove his hands from the rail. He hadn’t expected such wrath in bargaining for a kiss! Braving the emotion that flowed from her eyes like lava from a volcano, he pulled her against his chest, pressing her tightly to him. At first she struggled, forcing her arms between them, arching backward. But he held her fast, insisting, urging. Those lips that so invited, the smooth fair skin that tempted a man’s hand, the gentle curves, generous yet not overblown, all were there in his arms.

  For a moment she went lifeless in his arms; all struggles ceased, and tawny eyes stared up at him, smoldering with indignation and flashing with rage. But the rejection he was looking for was nowhere to be found.

  Chelsea tensed herself for what was to come. His arms tightened around her despite her struggles. Then he was forcing her closer, crushing her, his body hard and muscular. She felt herself caught in the intensity of his gaze, aware of his power, knowing beyond doubt that he meant to have his way and would have it. In spite of herself and her outrage, she was drawn into t
he depths of that dark gaze, aware that under different circumstances, in another time, she could drown in those dark liquid pools and yield to his demands with a fevered pleasure. He was devilishly handsome, sensual, awakening the woman in her.

  When he lowered his head she braced herself for his kiss, tightening her mouth against his onslaught. Instead, she felt his lips gentle against her brow, slipping into her hairline and descending in a path to the sensitive skin at her ear. She was aware of the spicy scent of his cologne, of the close stubble of beard on his chin, of the softness of his lips as they traced patterns across her cheeks.

  Chelsea’s knees weakened, and the arms she held so rigidly between them in protest were losing their force, relaxing, yielding. Whoever this Quaid Tanner was, whatever he was, he was no clod, no blunderer who fumbled with a woman’s clothing and handled her roughly. This was a man who knew how to be tender, to wait for a woman’s response, and artfully bring her to full awareness of herself as a woman and of him as a man.

  Her arms dropped to her sides, useless. Gently, his hand cupped her face, lifting her chin, raising her lips to his own. Then, just when she thought he would release her, his kiss deepened, the moist tip of his tongue smoothing the satiny underside of her lips and penetrating ever so softly, ever so slowly, into the recesses of her mouth.

  A riot of confused emotions railed within Chelsea’s breast. She acknowledged her attraction for this enigmatic, impertinent man and realized that had she not been always on the defensive, she would have been tremendously drawn to him. Without reason or logic, her arms came up from her sides and encircled his back, fingers smoothing over his coat jacket, feeling the smooth plane of muscle that bespoke energy, vitality, and hard work. Prolonging the contact between them, she offered herself to his kiss, knowing that despite herself and his veiled threats of blackmail, he had kindled a spark of womanhood within her and she wanted him to bring it to flame.

  Feeling her moist lips soften and part, offering themselves to him, Quaid groaned softly and moved his mouth hungrily over hers, tasting the sweetness within. This was what he’d wanted—a kiss willingly given, a kiss that was gentle yet spoke of passion.

  When he released her his fathomless ebony eyes searched hers for an instant, and time seemed to roll eternal for Chelsea. From somewhere inside her came a desire to linger in his arms, to feel again the touch of his mouth upon hers; and the desire began to build and crescendo. He meant to exact a price for his silence, and it was a payment she suddenly found herself far too willing to pay. Long, thick lashes closed, and she heard her breath coming in ragged little gasps of surprise and wonder. Boldly she brought her mouth to his once again, offering herself, kissing him deeply, searchingly. He was chasing away her reservations, blotting out the knowledge that he had forced her into this position. Nothing mattered but this man and the feelings he had awakened in her.

  She kissed him as she had never kissed another man. There had been other kisses, other caresses, but none that elicited this response in her. Not even when she was sixteen and thought herself to be wildly in love with a much older, very experienced man, an actor in Cosmo’s troupe, had she felt this way. Then, she had been a girl exploring the frontiers of her womanhood, fumbling hurriedly through the love act in the dank shadows of a theater, believing herself to be so much in love that she had bitten back restraint and disappointment. She had been so young, so afraid, but still she had given. When she’d discovered her lover was a married man seeking only a few nights’ distraction, she’d become bitter and resentful, deciding never again to allow herself to be exploited by a man. Something inside her had died at that betrayal, but now, here in the arms of Quaid Tanner, she felt a renewal of the feelings she had so long resisted.

  His gentle fingers caressed her cheek, and when he spoke, his voice was husky with emotion, little more than a whisper wafting through the night.

  “Come with me, Chelsea.” It was a demand; it was a question.

  Chelsea felt intoxicated by the moment; she knew Quaid Tanner was a man who could make her senses reel and ignite her passions beyond anything she’d ever experienced.

  A tiny voice resounded in her head, telling her she should pull away and run, run as far away as she could. Explanations could be made, excuses pleaded as to her mistaken identity and as to why she had perpetuated the misunderstanding. She had never meant things to go so far, and Honoria was not so sick that she couldn’t set things right. She shouldn’t allow this to happen, however much her senses and body cried out for it. She should hate him for the price he was exacting, the sweet, sweet price.

  He seemed to find his answer in her kiss, in the pressure of her body against his own. His hand cupped her throat, and he could feel the abandoned rhythm of her pulses, which sent a streak of fire through his loins. He had bargained for a simple kiss, but she could offer so much more! He had wanted her from the first moment he had seen her walk on stage, and he knew he wanted her even more now, more even than his next breath. The way she clung to him and opened her mouth to the pressure of his told him she was not a coquette playing out a flirtation. Chelsea was a warm-blooded woman hungry for the touch of a man.

  Chelsea forced herself backward, bracing herself, denying him access to her lips. “No, no, there must be something else you want, anything else. I can’t, I can’t!”

  “You can, you can,” he murmured. “I want you, Chelsea. I want you and you want me. Don’t deny it. Don’t deny us.” Again his words were spoken so softly that she might only have imagined them. “There’s nothing I want so much, only you.”

  He took her hand in his and led her along the deck; only the scattered gimballed lanterns lighted their way. Chelsea was dimly aware of voices in the distance and the sluicing of water beneath the ship’s hull. She had no idea where he was taking her, and she didn’t care.

  Chapter 6

  As he walked beside Chelsea along the decks of the Southern Cross, Quaid found himself admiring her profile and appreciating her nose, which lent her an arrogant air. It was upturned slightly, in perfect balance with her clear, intelligent brow and softly rounded chin. The fair oval of her face was offset by a wealth of gleaming dark hair, which glowed chestnut in the light of day and took on the deeper hues of sable by night.

  Chelsea moved beside him, knowing he was studying her and liking what he saw. She felt herself bloom beneath his quiet gaze and held herself proudly. She was not a girl any longer but a woman, and she would pretend no coquettishness or false modesty; she knew he would not allow it. This man would demand she yield to her passion and delight in the pleasure he gave her. She knew, somehow, that this night would not end with her wanting and needing so much more than she received, as it had when she was sixteen. Tonight she would not cry for her lost innocence, burning all the while with frustration and guilt.

  When he led her down the companionway to his cabin, she did not even turn her eyes in the direction of her own quarters; there was nothing in there she wanted. What she wanted, regardless of the reason or the method, was to find herself once again in Quaid Tanner’s arms, living the fulfillment and promise she had found in his eyes. She was inexplicably drawn to the danger of it all like a moth to a flame, and she would not allow herself to consider the consequences. There was only the here and now—everything else could be faced some other time, when her brain worked clearly and no mysterious little fires hungered to be quenched.

  Behind the closed door of his cabin, Quaid took her once again into his arms, hungry for the touch of her, the feel of her. Hidden from the eyes of the world, his lips claimed hers once again in sweet possession.

  It seemed then to Chelsea that his mouth became part of her own, and she engaged upon a hesitant exploration of it with the tip of her tongue. White teeth, large and square; full, sensuous lips; a clean mouth, tasting vaguely of her own and of the port wine from dinner. She clung to him, unwilling to allow even the narrowest space between them. His kisses were intoxicating, making her light-headed, heightening h
er craving for more, ever more. It seemed to them as though the Southern Cross had entered the path of a tidal wave; they were inexorably thrown and tossed upon a stormy sea, which rocked their senses. They strained toward each other, captured by the designs of sensuality, caught in a yearning that penetrated the barriers of the flesh and drove them to join breath and body, spirit and soul.

  When at last they could bear to part, he led her over to his bed and placed her upon it. Quickly, nimbly, he lit the lantern on the far wall and lowered the wick until the cabin was lit with a dim golden glow. He turned to look at her, those dark eyes conveying exciting messages from beneath thick black brows. As though hypnotized, Chelsea began to work the tiny rhinestone buttons on the front of her gown, never taking her gaze from his, feeling the power of his will as her fingers fumbled and shook.

  “No, let me do that for you,” he said. “I want to unwrap you, as though you were a Boxing Day present meant for me alone.”

  At that moment she felt as though she were indeed meant for him alone—that it was fated his eyes should be looking at her as they were now, filled with desire, brimming with expectation, fated that his voice should be so soft, so gentle, yet could vibrate through her like the deep, rumbling note of a violin, plucking at her senses, casting a spell over her. If at first the actress in her had set out to play a part by succumbing to his wants and striking his bargain, now she had fallen prey to the role, and the woman in her responded and welcomed his touch.

  He moved beside her, deftly replacing her hands with his, undoing the tiny buttons and slipping the wine-red silk from her shoulders, exposing her skin to his touch, to his kiss. As layer after layer of concealing fabric fell away, her passion grew, smoldering within her ready to burst into flame.

  In the cabin’s golden glow, he laid her back against the pillows, following her body, leaning over her to nuzzle her neck and inhale her fragrance. He blazed a trail from her throat to her bare breasts, and she trembled with exquisite anticipation. All things moved to the distance, nothing and no one existed beyond this moment and place. The only reality was the way her body reacted to this man. Pleasure radiated upward from some hidden well, and she allowed herself to be carried with it, unable to hinder the forward thrust of her own desire, lifting out of space and time into the turbulent waters of her aroused sensuality.