Reckless Passion

by Stephanie James

  Telling herself that Yale in his Southern-gentleman role would be much easier to handle when the time came to say good night, Dara allowed herself to be drawn closer to the flame. Her cheek moved luxu­riously against the roughness of his jacket as her head rested on his shoulder. Everything about this man elicited a response from her senses. Everything clicked.

  "You have a way of feeding the fire in me even when you're sitting across the table trying to sell se­curities to me!" Yale's muttered accusation was heavy with undisguised desire.

  His hands tightened in the thickness of her hair, holding her unmercifully still while he drank his fill of her lips.

  "Touch me,- Dara," he commanded huskily as her fingers crept up the front of his jacket and found the buttons of his shirt. “I love to feel your hands on me. You do want me, sweetheart. Admit that much, at least!'

  "I want you, Yale," she whispered, eyes closing in utter pleasure as he lifted the hair aside and found her throat with his lips. "You must know that!'

  "I know it," he growled against the skin of her shoulder. "I just want to make sure you do."

  She felt a vague trickle of alarm stir at the back of her mind.

  "Why?" she pleaded starkly.

  "Because it will make it easier for you to tell that other man he has to go!'

  She felt the abrupt tension in him as he pushed her slowly back against the cushions. Simultaneously he lowered the zipper of the yellow gown, and by the time she found herself beneath him, the bodice had been lowered to her waist.

  Mutely she watched as he raised himself far enough away to shrug out of the jacket, flinging it aside, and then he was covering her again. His hands glided down her throat to her breasts and his legs settled with arrogant force between her thighs. The yellow skirt was hiked up almost to her hips and Dara felt rav­ished.

  "You must tell him soon, Dara," he grated, dusting the valley between her breasts with tiny, stinging little kisses. "Tomorrow. Get rid of him!"

  "Yale, let me explain," she begged, arching in­stinctively into his body.

  "No, I don't want to talk about him anymore. Just tell him it's over. Tell him on the phone. I don't want you seeing him again," he rasped.

  "You're starting to sound like your other self again," she told him tauntingly, filled suddenly with an inexplicable desire to goad and provoke. He made her go a little crazy when he did this to her, she re­alized. And the notion of his being jealous was sat­isfying, indeed. Even if it was terribly risky.

  "The two of us are perfectly in accord when it comes to some things," Yale vowed, sliding slowly down her body. “We share a common goal, remem­ber!"

  "Oh!"

  The exclamation was torn from her as his hands, moving forcefully down her ribs and waist, pushed the soft yellow fabric over her hips. His tongue went over her skin with a damp heat that made her writhe and her fingers clench fiercely in the amber of his hair.

  "Oh, Yale!"

  Her mounting excitement seemed to inflame him further and his lips teased at her waist and stomach. She moaned, her head tossing restlessly on the cush­ion, and tried to gain some semblance of control over her spinning senses. Desperately she made herself think of the previous night and how she had sworn she would not invite him to her bed again. Not until she was sure of him....

  "You will tell him in the morning, won't you, Dara?"

  "Tell who...what...?" It was becoming impossi­ble to think, she realized. She had to get a grip on her emotions. It was too soon. She couldn't give in, not yet, not with so much at stake....

  "That other man, damn it!" he said harshly, his teeth nipping with deliberate punishment at her vul­nerable inner thigh. She flinched, and instantly his tongue came out to soothe the spot.

  "There won't be any other man in your life except me! You're building a relationship with me, no one else! Is that understood?"

  "Yes," she breathed. "Yes, Yale, I understand. There won't be anyone else...." As long as you're around, there couldn't be anyone else, don't you know that? she added silently.

  "Good," he said with such complete satisfaction that he gave himself away. Dara sucked in her breath in sudden, overpowering fury.

  “Why, you... you bas—'' She broke off of her own accord, knowing that even in the heat of her anger, she couldn't fling that particular word at him again. "You arrogant, overbearing, domineering, trucker! What makes you think you can make love to me until I'll do whatever you want?"

  "Wait," he protested as her fingers tightened threateningly in his hair. She could feel the rueful laughter in him and tugged harder. "Wait, honey, that can't be me you're describing!"

  "Don't give me that, you wolf in accountant's clothing! I'll teach you to try and seduce me!"

  She began to struggle free of him, kicking at his leg with her sandaled foot and yanking unmercifully on the amber hair. How dare he play that game with her tonight? How dare he ruin her wonderful evening!

  Yale must have realized she was beyond reasoning. He moved quickly, efficiently, grabbing her wrists and chaining them in one firm fist. He used the sheer force of his weight and strength to stifle her twisting, scrabbling efforts to be free.

  He didn't hurt her, but he bore down on her, crush­ing her so completely into the cushions that she couldn't move. There he let her futilely struggle until she had exhausted herself.

  "Damn you!" she seethed, infuriated at his pa­tience while he waited for her to calm down. "You are the most annoying man I have ever met! And you were supposed to be a gentleman tonight!" she ended on a wail.

  "I am behaving like a gentleman," he told her bluntly, hazel eyes hardening as he met her furious glare. "And you, my vicious little tabby, ought to be grateful at the moment! There are several very ungentlemanly things I'd like to do to you right now!"

  "What's stopping you?" she demanded recklessly.

  "The knowledge that I deserved the attack, I guess," he admitted with an abrupt, rueful little grin. “I was using a rather underhanded method to achieve my goal, wasn't I?"

  "You certainly were!" she assured him fervently, her nearly green eyes narrowing. "And don't think this boyish, abashed little apology is going to make everything all right! It's time for my gentleman friend to leave!"

  "Kicking me out again?" he asked sadly.

  "With pleasure!'

  He sighed, sitting up and releasing her carefully. Hastily she tugged her dress back up to her shoulders, aware of his mocking scrutiny.

  "I meant it, you know," he said softly as she scrambled to a sitting position at the far end of the couch.

  "Meant what?" she grumbled, trying to pull the zipper up far enough to hold the dress in place. She refused to look at him.

  "Get rid of him, Dara."

  She shivered suddenly at the cold intent in his words and her teeth unconsciously caught her lower lip in a small gesture of wariness as she turned her head to look at him.

  "You and I have enough to do settling the matter of this relationship of ours. I won't have another man involved."

  She stared at him for a long moment, aware of the strength of his will. She could feel the force of it flowing around her, binding her, defying her to ignore it. How jealous was he? Did his jealousy indicate love or was it merely an instinctive possessiveness toward a woman he happened to find himself wanting?

  "It seems to me," she drawled with amazing dar­ing, "that if I give up this 'other' man, the odds be­come rather poor."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded roughly, picking up his glasses and putting them on with an impatient gesture.

  "It becomes a case of two against one," she mocked, "Both of you against me...."

  "That strikes me as just about even!"

  "Yale!"

  "Dara," he said with such quiet menace that she was positive both the devil and the gentleman were totally united for the moment. "This is not a negotia­ble point. Get rid of him!"

  He snagged her wrist before she could answer, got to his feet and pulled he
r up beside him. "Give me your word that there won't be any other men in­volved, or I'll give you mine that I won't leave to­night until I have your promise!"

  Locked to him by the savage grip on her wrist, Dara stared up at him, wide-eyed and knowing this was one way of playing the game that wouldn't work.

  "There won't be another man in my life, Yale," she capitulated with a submissiveness that appalled her. But, then, she acknowledged to herself, it was nothing less than the truth.

  Ten

  After he had extracted her promise to get rid of the nonexistent other man, Yale's hunting settled into a clear, dangerous pattern. Dara was helplessly in­trigued by the novelty of being seduced by two men in the same body. She was also very much afraid at times that she would go crazy.

  Her responses to the Southern gentleman and his alter ego were amusingly different and, she told her­self ruefully, equally intense. With her accountant there were pleasant luncheons and evenings spent in conversation on a variety of subjects. They argued about the stock market, with Yale losing. He, in turn, talked of tax shelters and clever accounting strategies. They discussed mutual interests in books, films and politics.

  "You know," he told her over a sinfully rich des­sert of Burnt Cream which Dara had prepared one evening, "you have what used to be called a Renais­sance mind. No matter what we talk about, you seem to have some information on the subject!"

  "No." She smiled, scooping up a spoonful of the luscious dessert. "I'm a dabbler. People with Renais­sance minds are supposed to be accomplished in all their interests. I just dabble around until I find the ones that..."

  "Click?" he provided wryly, slanting her an en­igmatic glance.

  "I'm afraid so," she admitted with an elegant little shrug.

  The other advantage to the Southern gentleman, Dara told herself time and again as she was bid good night, was that he really did behave like a gentleman. There were no more awkward scenes or threatened seductions when she would deliberately draw the eve­ning to a close. It wasn't that Yale didn't kiss her with passion and a clear desire to carry matters into the bedroom; he did. But he took his dismissals with grace, and Dara knew that if the lovemaking ever went further it would be entirely her own fault.

  The times spent with her gentleman accountant were civilized, casually sophisticated and delightful for Dara. She loved this side of Yale. She could relax with this man. Relax and enjoy herself while working on the construction of a relationship that, she told herself, had a lasting basis.

  The word relax was the antonym of what she felt when the hunting devil from the hills appeared. Dara never had any trouble telling the two men apart. Yale made no effort to blunt the sensual menace which seemed to radiate from him when he chose to pursue her in this guise.

  He set her nerves on edge whenever he was in the vicinity. Glancing into her rearview mirror and find­ing the Alfa Romeo following her to work or parked in the lot outside a store in which she had been shop­ping was enough to send chills down her spine.

  He had the audacity to show up on her doorstep one night after she had gone to bed, leaning on the doorbell until she finally answered.

  "To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" she demanded caustically when she'd finally dragged herself out of bed, flung on her fluffy robe and padded to the front door. The question was rhetorical. She'd known at once.

  "Guess," Yale had suggested with his wicked smile.

  She'd studied his negligent pose in the doorjamb with the wary, narrowed green gaze this version of Yale always elicited.

  "I sent you home three hours ago," Dara had tried tartly, already aware of the excitement fluttering from her head to her toes.

  "You sent him home," he'd corrected, sliding a foot over the threshold and gently forcing her back into the wall. "Me, I'm just getting started for the evening."

  He had been dressed all in black again, the amber hair slightly ruffled, the glasses nowhere in evidence. Dara had instinctively clutched the robe more tightly around herself and sought for a way to deal with the dangerous situation.

  "That's far enough, Yale. I want you to leave."

  "Show me," he invited, clamping his strong hands around her shoulders and pulling her forcibly against the lean darkness of him. "Show me how badly you want me to leave!"

  It had taken an extraordinary effort of willpower and Dara had found herself precariously close to sur­render before she had managed the feat, but at last she had sent the devil away. His rage and frustration had been clearly evident, and the roar of the Alfa Romeo had been alarming as it disappeared into the distance.

  Dara had leaned against the wall, regrouping her forces after the onslaught, and wondered how much longer she could survive the perilous game.

  But the next day the gentleman was back, acting as if nothing at all had happened since he had wined and dined her so beguilingly the previous evening. Dara had given up berating him for the actions of his other half. Yale simply pretended a total lack of in­terest in the subject. She had drawn a long sigh of relief and relaxed once more.

  The week slipped by rapidly, and by its end Dara was doing her best to see as much of the gentleman and as little of the devil as she could. Feeling a bit silly, she issued an invitation to the accountant. At least Yale was consistent in his personalities. Invita­tions made to the accountant were accepted by him. He didn't switch roles on her unexpectedly. It gave Dara a certain reassurance for which she was increas­ingly grateful.

  "A picnic?" he repeated, sounding pleased. "That sounds interesting. What shall I bring?"

  "Whatever will fit in a bike pouch." Dara chuck­led. It was Friday night and she was once again bid­ding him farewell on her doorstep. "You do have a bike, don't you?"

  "No, but I know where I can borrow one," he offered smilingly.

  "Hmm. That won't do around here, you know. You'll have to get one of your own if you're going to become a genuine Eugene resident."

  "Yes, ma'am," he agreed humbly.

  She was carefully arranging the last of the sand­wiches in her large bike bag late the next morning when he appeared. She turned at the hiss of tires on the sidewalk and found him dressed in jeans, mounted on a racy-looking red ten-speed. The collar of his brown pullover was open.

  "You must have a very friendly neighbor! That's an expensive bike!" she said, admiring the lines.

  He patted the low-slung handlebars. "My paper­boy. He let me have it this morning after he finished his run. Nice kid."

  She watched him swing lithely off the bike and push it over to where she puttered around her own yellow steed.

  "You sure you wouldn't rather take the car?" he asked dubiously as she finished her preparations. His eyes scanned her tight-fitting jeans and open-necked green shirt.

  The dark hunter would have reached out to pat the luxurious roundness of her derriere and the hazel eyes would have rested appreciatively on the full curve of her breast, but the gentleman was much more polite. Yale's smiling gaze warmed but he said nothing.

  "Oh, no, this is a perfect day for a bike ride," she assured him, strapping the bag shut and mounting with practiced ease. "Ready?"

  "Lead the way," he invited.

  It was a delight to the senses to be whisking through the warm sunlight of an Oregon morning with the man she loved by her side, Dara thought bliss­fully. The bikes sailed over the road and the wind whistled past her ears.

  "The river?" Yale asked, turning his head to glance at her laughing profile.

  "I know a perfect spot." She grinned.

  She led him through the wooded five-hundred-acre park, past the five-mile jogging trail and a long canal designed for canoeing, into a quiet landscape of green fields and tall trees.

  "This is good country," Yale murmured quietly.

  "The best," Dara agreed with the deep pleasure of the native Oregonian.

  "I hadn't realized how important the Willamette River Valley was to the history of the settlement of the West," Yale mused reflectively.
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  Dara winced at his pronunciation of the river's name. "In addition to getting a bike, you'd better learn how to pronounce the name of the river." She chuckled. "It's Wil-LAMB-it. And you're right. This river was as much an influence on this region as the Mississippi and Ohio rivers were on their states. We used to have steamboats on it transporting the cargo

  between the different towns. People coming from back East thought they'd found heaven when they finally reached the Willamette Valley."

  "I know how they felt," Yale said gently, flicking her an amused glance.

  Warmed by the look in his eyes, Dara pretended to be busy searching for a suitable picnic spot.

  "How does this look?" she suggested, indicating an isolated woodsy area.

  "Fine," he agreed, gliding the bike to a halt. "But let's go a little farther from the path. I don't like spec­tators when I eat."

  "Sorry I couldn't stuff a blanket into the pack," Dara apologized as they led the bikes off the trail and located a grassy spot on which to sit.

  "That's what jeans are for," Yale said lightly, glancing around as if to assure himself of a reasonable measure of privacy. Then he bent over to fumble with his own bike bag.

  "What did you bring?" Dara demanded interest­edly as she withdrew the sandwiches, fruit and cook­ies from her own pack.

  He produced a half-liter bottie of Burgundy, and she grinned approvingly.

  "I even remembered a couple of paper cups," he told her virtuously, coming to sit down beside her on the grass.

  "The perfect date," Dara said sweetly, opening sandwiches. "I try."

  "The other Yale could take a few lessons from you," she noted, not looking at him.

  "I don't really feel like talking about him at the moment," Yale said smoothly, reaching eagerly for the nearest sandwich. "What have I got here?"

  "Salmon and capers," she told him. "There's also one with a butter spread of dried herbs and wine and a chutney and cheese mixture."

  "No tuna fish or ham and cheese?" he mocked, surveying the cleverly cut sandwiches with enthusi­asm.