by Kay Hooper
“All right,” she murmured. “Where?”
“Three-twenty-four South Highland. I’ll meet you in the lobby.” He hung up.
Michele cradled the receiver and stared down at it for a moment. After checking Ian’s phone bills, she knew that address; it was his apartment building. She took a deep breath, then went to the living room doorway and spoke casually to her brother.
“I have to go out for a while. Tell Dad and Leona I probably won’t be back for supper.” Leona was their housekeeper.
“Where are you going?” he asked immediately.
“You worry too much, Jon. See you later.” Before he could demand an answer, she quickly retreated to gather her purse and keys, then left the house. She wasted no time in driving her Cougar away from the neighborhood; it was doubtful her brother would resort to following her, but she was already taking one chance too many.
The evening traffic was fairly light, and she pulled into the parking lot at the apartment building just over half an hour later. Since it was well past dark, the building showed few features except for lighted windows stretching upward, seemingly into infinity. Michele parked her car and made her way to the entrance; it was a security building, so the bright lobby boasted a guard at a high desk who looked up as she came in.
Then she saw Ian walking toward her. She hadn’t seen him in more than twenty-four hours, and it felt like forever. He was wearing dark slacks and a white shirt open at the throat with the sleeves rolled up over his forearms, and she wondered vaguely how she could have seen him across crowded rooms for years without realizing that he moved like a big cat, with riveting grace and power.
Or maybe she had realized. Maybe she had known it for all those years, without being able to admit it to herself. Maybe that was why no other man had ever stirred her blood.
His eyes were darkened, his face very still. He took her hand without a word and led her toward the elevators. The guard, unsurprised and uninterested, went back to his magazine.
Neither of them spoke in the elevator. Michele looked down at their entwined hands, and for the first time a sense of peace and certainty stole over her. The fortune-teller’s warning flitted through her mind, and she knew that, right or wrong, she had chosen the path she had to follow.
The elevator opened onto the top floor of the building, and Ian led her down the hall to his door. The moment they were inside, he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly.
“You didn’t believe it,” he said huskily. “Thank God you didn’t believe it.”
“When I left Martinique, I wasn’t sure,” she admitted, holding on to him fiercely. “Dad was so certain. But all the way back here I kept thinking that you couldn’t have, that it simply wasn’t possible.”
Ian drew back just far enough to kiss her. “After you hung up on me this morning, I was afraid you believed it,” he murmured against her mouth.
Michele smiled up at him as he lifted his head. “Dad was in the room,” she said simply.
His eyes burned down at her. “I know we need to talk,” he said in a hoarse, thickened voice, “but right now all I want to do is carry you to bed.”
The rough statement made Michele’s legs go weak, and her heart begin to pound erratically. Heat blossomed inside her. She shrugged off her shoulder bag, letting it drop carelessly to the floor, and lifted her arms to encircle his neck. “Please,” she whispered.
Ian groaned as he gathered her up into his arms and strode through the apartment to his bedroom. What she did to him! From the first time they’d made love, Michele had been completely uninhibited, so utterly honest and natural in her desire that it had stolen his breath. It was nothing short of miraculous that she could feel so strongly for him of all men; and the knowledge that she had never felt it for another man made it even more astonishing. It was as if all the fiery passion inside her had lain dormant waiting for him.
He set her on her feet beside his bed and turned on the lamp on the nightstand before sweeping the covers impatiently away. Then his fingers went to her neat braid and unclipped the narrow barrette; her thick hair freed itself instantly, unwinding from the severe style until it tumbled about her shoulders in a dark, shining cloud. He loved the look and feel of her hair loose, loved to run his fingers through the long, silky curls.
She was coping familiarly with the buttons of his shirt, pulling the tail free of his pants, and as she pushed the material off his shoulders he shrugged free of it.
“Wait,” he murmured, catching her hands as she reached for the buckle of his belt.
Michele was no longer even mildly shocked at her own fervent eagerness. “Why?” she whispered.
Ian kissed her hungrily, then eased down on the edge of the bed and drew her forward to stand between his thighs. “Let me,” he said huskily, slowly unbuttoning her silk blouse.
She caught her breath and went still, watching his absorbed expression. She understood dimly that Ian wanted to make it last, and fought to control her own wild need. His deliberation fed the exquisite tension spreading all through her body, and she could feel her heart thudding unevenly.
He reached the final button and slowly pushed the blouse off her shoulders, his hands lingering to stroke her arms lightly. Michele shivered and forced herself to remain still, even though every instinct urged her to move. He unfastened her slacks and pushed them down, and this time she moved only to step out of her shoes and nudge them and the pants aside.
Ian found the front clasp of her bra and opened it, but instead of stripping the flimsy cups of lace and satin away he bent his head forward to nuzzle between them. Michele felt his warm lips, the gliding touch of his tongue between her breasts, and her hands lifted to stroke his thick hair unsteadily as all her senses responded wildly to the caress. She could hardly breathe, and bit her bottom lip to hold back the sounds rising inside her.
He held both his hands at her narrow waist and used his lips and tongue to push aside very slowly the material hiding her breasts from him. When the straps slipped off her shoulders, she shrugged the bra to the floor, her fingers returning immediately to twine in his hair. For long moments he concentrated on the flushed and swollen curves, his mouth tasting her firm flesh with scalding hunger. Michele couldn’t be still now, because her breasts were full and hot, the nipples so tight they were actually painful. Her fingers dug into his thick hair, and a moan escaped her throat.
“Ian, please,” she whispered, sure she wouldn’t be able to bear the sweet torture a second longer. The tension inside her was so great it was as if she hung suspended, anticipation coiling like agony. And then his mouth closed over a taut nipple, and she jerked at the instant, fiery pleasure, crying out because there was no room inside her to contain the incredible sensation. All the remaining strength flowed out of her legs, and she almost collapsed against him.
His hands slid over her bottom and lifted her, and she instinctively parted her legs as he settled her onto his lap. Only his pants and her silken panties separated them, and she was desperate to feel his flesh against her, and inside her. His mouth on her felt wonderful, but she wanted more. When his lips finally trailed up her throat to find hers, she kissed him wildly, demanding that he stop the torment.
A chuckle or a growl rumbled in Ian’s chest, and he rose still holding her tightly against him. He turned and bent forward to lay her on the bed, then straightened and swiftly got rid of his remaining clothing. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she lay waiting for him. He had never really noticed what desire looked like on a woman’s face, but on Michele’s it was something he couldn’t get enough of. Her delicate beauty altered with passion, grew somehow more intense, and he thought he had never seen anything more lovely. Her haunting eyes were pools of smoky gray, infinitely deep, a siren’s eyes filled with eons of secret female wisdom, and in her husky voice was the ancient enchantment that could steal a man’s soul and make it her own.
He came down on the bed beside her and covered her mouth with his, as frantic
with need as she was. He hadn’t wanted to hurry, very conscious of the fact that it could well be some time before they would be able to meet again, but both his urgent desire and her inflaming response were snapping the threads of his control. He was past the point of being able to move slowly; his craving for her was a compulsion that couldn’t be mastered.
He stripped off her panties roughly and then spread her legs and moved between them. The need to bury himself in her, to sheathe his aching flesh in her welcoming heat was overwhelming, but a deeper, more powerful need kept him braced above her just on the point of entry.
“Michele,” he said in a voice he hardly recognized, a voice that was strained and guttural because it came from a place inside him almost too profound for words. “Michele, I love you.”
She was utterly still for an instant, staring up at him with wide, bottomless eyes. Then those eyes were filled with emotions so stark he almost wanted to hide his own eyes from them, almost wanted to look away and tell her not to feel that much for him because he couldn’t bear it. But he had to bear it; he had no choice. What he felt for her was just as primitive, every bit as complex and wonderful and terrifying as what he could see shining in her eyes.
She lifted her head to kiss him, and a smile of wonder curved her lips as her arms tightened around his neck. “I love you,” she whispered. “I think I’ve loved you all my life. Ian…”
He groaned, a wild tangle of love and desire coiling inside him until he thought he’d burst with it. Slowly, he bore down until the tight heat of her body enclosed him. He wanted to fill her with himself, to fuse them together in flesh just as this essential love was fusing them in spirit.
Michele had thought she could never feel more than she had on Martinique, but she was wrong. With love acknowledged on both sides, it seemed that some final, dimly perceived barrier between them had shattered. Every physical sensation was more intense, the intimacy more stark, the joining more complete. The emotions inside her surged until they couldn’t be contained, until they escaped in tears and broken murmurs of love.
Passion had formed the first tenuous bond between them, but it was love that anchored and strengthened it, love that reached across a chasm left by five centuries of hate. A strong, solid bridge was built out of the most fragile and powerful emotion of the human heart, an emotion that was all the more remarkable because it existed between two people who were born and bred to be enemies.
—
In the lamplight quiet of the bedroom they lay close together, both still caught up in the wonder of their own feelings. Ian was the first to speak, his voice low and husky.
“No going back.”
Michele lifted her head from its resting place on his shoulder and looked at him gravely. “Was there ever a point when we could have?”
He brushed a strand of her silky black hair away from her cheek, his hand lingering to stroke her soft skin. “I don’t think so, baby. Even with everything against us, we fell in love. Maybe we never had a choice.”
After a moment, Michele told him about her visit with Jackie to the fortune-teller, repeating as much of the prediction as she could remember. “I’ve never believed in that,” she finished. “Fate. But now I can’t help wondering. She couldn’t have known, Ian, not so…so completely. She said I was born to resolve an old conflict, and destined to love the enemy of my family.”
Ian didn’t scoff, even though he was a man with little faith in so-called psychic abilities. With a slightly twisted smile, he said, “I’d like to believe it was just a fluke, but if I were truly master of my own fate, I would have kept driving when I saw you by the roadside.”
“You didn’t know it was me,” she objected.
His smile deepened. “Oh, yes, I did.”
“But you looked surprised when I turned around.”
Ian raised his head and kissed her, then admitted, “I was surprised. Shocked, really. I didn’t understand what I was feeling until later; all I knew was that I took one look at you and knew you could never be an enemy.”
Her smile faded. “I’m sorry I left the island without a word. I was just so confused.”
“I know. And worried about Jon. The hospital said he had a slight concussion and a broken wrist. How is he?”
“He’s up and around.” Michele frowned. “I think…He acts as if he believes I’m different somehow. I’ve been trying to make him at least accept the possibility that somebody else is behind the sabotage, and he’s suspicious of my motives.”
“You think he might guess about us?”
“I just don’t know. And I don’t know how he’ll react if he does guess. A week ago I would have said he’d go after you with a gun, but…”
“But?”
“It’s a feeling more than anything I can put my finger on. He seems…It’s as if he’s fighting to hold on to the hate even though the emotion’s just half there.”
“Habit, maybe.” Ian looked thoughtful.
Michele wished she could focus on whatever it was she sensed about Jon, but shrugged it away for the moment. “Anyway, I spent the day trying to get some evidence he’d accept, and I finally convinced him to at least check a few things himself.”
After a moment, Ian said, “We really do have to talk about this.” Even as he said it, he was stroking her slender body gently, unable to stop touching her. “Why don’t we have a shower and then go rustle something up in the kitchen?”
“Can you cook?”
“Yes. Can you?”
She smiled gently. “No.”
“Trouble boiling water?”
“Oh, I can do that.”
“Then you can make the coffee.”
Michele did make the coffee, but only after a prolonged interval in Ian’s shower. And it was while they were digging into the excellent omelettes he had prepared that she made a somewhat rueful statement.
“I think I’d better get a prescription for the pill.”
With an answering smile, Ian said, “Maybe you’d better. I can’t seem to be practical when I get near you.”
Michele had done a bit of calculating after coming home from Martinique, and she had a strong feeling that unless either she or Ian were infertile she had very likely already conceived. Her cycle was extremely regular, never influenced by stress or emotion, and her next period was due in less than two weeks. Her doctor would doubtless want to make certain before putting her on any form of birth control.
The timing, of course, was hardly perfect, but Michele couldn’t find it in herself to be disturbed. If she was carrying Ian’s child it would delight her; even now, just the possibility sent a surge of utter contentment through her. She wanted a baby, their baby, and no doubts or shadows over the future could dispel that longing.
“What are you thinking?” he asked suddenly, huskily. “Your face is so soft.” It was more than that, but he couldn’t find the words to explain what he saw. Just as passion made her fiercely beautiful, this mood now made her lovely in a new and strangely moving way. She looked serene, mysterious, the little smile curving her lips both tremulous and pleased.
Meeting his intent gaze, she said softly, “I’m thinking that I might be pregnant. There’s a good chance.”
Ian felt his throat tighten as he reached across the small table and took her hand. The thought of his child growing inside her delicate body made him realize just how badly he wanted it to happen. For the first time, he wondered if his carelessness had been, on some deep level, deliberate. “I know we haven’t found all the answers yet, but no matter what happens I’m not going to lose you. Marry me.”
Michele didn’t think about how their families would react or about anything else except the happiness filling her. Nothing in her life had felt as certain as this. “Yes,” she whispered.
Some time later, with no clear idea of how she’d gotten there, Michele sat up to find herself on Ian’s lap; they were in the living room, and he was sitting on the couch. She had no fault to find with the arrangement,
but a glance at his watch made her say in surprise, “I’ve been here for hours.”
Ian looked at the watch as well and sighed. “Dammit, I don’t want you to leave.”
In spite of her happiness, the reminder made her aware of all the problems lying ahead of them. “I don’t want to go. But we have to be careful, Ian. You know that.”
“I wish it were a joke,” he said broodingly. “The Hatfields and the McCoys. A comic strip in the Sunday paper. But even when our feud was comical, it wasn’t very funny. And it isn’t funny now. We’re forced to act like teenagers with disapproving parents, as if we aren’t mature enough to make up our own minds. I don’t want stolen meetings and phone calls on the sly, Michele.”
“Neither do I.” She swallowed hard, then added steadily, “We have to stop the feud—or at least prove somebody else is involved in it.”
“And if we can’t?”
She drew a deep breath and met his eyes gravely. “Ian, I’ll marry you tomorrow if you want me to. I’ll live with you here or anywhere. No matter what happens between our families, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But I’d always blame myself if I didn’t at least try not to hurt Dad and Jon.”
“I know.” He kissed her gently, then forced himself to concentrate. “You said you’d spent the day trying to find evidence. Any luck?”
Michele told him what she’d found out about the explosive device the saboteur had used. “It isn’t much, but it is something. That timer came from the West Coast, probably from California. And it wasn’t cheap.”
Ian was frowning. “Odd. If somebody’s trying to push the feud toward violence, why use a device that neither side could easily acquire? A bundle of dynamite or a lump of plastique would have done the job just as well, and both are easily available in construction work.”
“I know, that’s bothering me, too. If the purpose was to cover his—or her, I suppose—tracks, it would have been smarter to go with the ordinary. Something as uncommon as that device could be traced back to a buyer.”
