by JoAnn Ross
"I know he tried to kill me," she said in a small voice. Her throat was so tight that it hurt even to whisper. At first she'd thought she was going to die, and later, when the doctor cut back on the painkillers to keep her from becoming addicted, she'd wanted to die. But she hadn't. She'd survived, and although the doctors had finally proclaimed her cured, she still suffered nightmares and the occasional panic attacks.
Her eyes were burning with hot tears; Savannah resolutely blinked them away. It was too late for weeping. "But there was no proof of premeditation, so in the end, he plea-bargained to aggravated assault and was sentenced to a year in prison."
Blake did some quick mental calculation. "Which means he'll be getting out soon."
"Yes." She didn't say anything more. There was no need.
Swearing softly, he stood and crossed the room. When he took her in his arms, Savannah didn't resist. Instead, she rested her head against the solid strength of his shoulder.
They remained that way for a long, silent time. As he felt her trembling slowly begin to cease, Blake thought how good it felt to hold her like this, how perfectly her head nestled against his shoulder, how her soft, feminine body seemed to have melted into his.
Savannah was thinking that Blake was even more dangerous when he was being warm and caring. Part of her wished that she could spend the rest of her life in the protective circle of his strong arms. Another, more realistic part of her realized that to be totally dependent on any man, even this one, would be a fatal mistake. But for now, she couldn't think of any good reason to move.
Blake found himself wishing he'd thought to turn on some music. Something slow, deep and pulsing. He'd never been a man to worry about setting the scene for romance. Nor had any of his women ever seemed to need a scene set. That was something for the movies. At least it had been. Until now. Until this woman had come into his life and blurred the lines between fantasy and reality. Between desire and need.
Whatever game she was playing, whoever Savannah Starr was pretending to be, whatever lies she'd told to ensure that he'd give her his film to score—all that no longer mattered. He wanted her. And that enormous truth overrode everything else.
It was so quiet. There was only the soft sound of the rain on the roof, the crackling of the fire. And the beat of her heart. From the way it was pounding in her breast, Savannah was amazed Blake couldn't hear it in the stillness of the night.
"This is impossible," she murmured, even as she wrapped her arms more tightly around his waist.
Blake pressed his lips against her hair and inhaled the fresh scent of wildflowers. "Nothing's impossible."
"It can't go anywhere."
He shifted his attention to her earlobe. "It already has." He trailed his lips from her temple to her mouth. "I want you, Savannah." His breath was a warm breeze against her parted lips.
Her resolve was melting away, like a sand castle at high tide. She lifted her hands to his shoulders— whether to push him away or draw her closer, Savannah's turmoiled mind couldn't decide.
"No," she whispered.
As his stroking hand moved down her back, Savannah suddenly understood the appeal that had kept the Dracula myth alive through the centuries. The dark night-stalker was so very male. So very powerful. So dangerously erotic. And even as a woman knew she should ward him off, she couldn't help wondering what it would be like to have him make love to her.
"Blake—" Her planned words of protest stuck in her throat as he brushed his lips over her temple.
Blake heard the hesitancy in her voice, he saw the clouded confusion in her eyes. All the other women in his life had approached this moment with a casual aura of expectancy, of experience. None of them—until Savannah—had ever trembled in his arms.
Needs hammered at him. Along with a sudden panic that he wouldn't be—couldn't be—gentle enough. The emotional tug-of-war raging inside him was a new and unwelcome sensation. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers one by one. He looked directly into her eyes.
"I've been honest with you, Savannah. I've told you that I wanted you from the beginning."
It was seduction—his deep voice, the practiced touch of his hand, the hypnotic power of his midnight-dark eyes. What frightened Savannah was that even as she recognized it for what it was, she also found it inescapable. The last time she'd felt this helpless was when—
No! When he pressed his lips against her palm, she jerked away.
"Do you always get everything you want?"
She was rigid. Blake saw the fear in her eyes and understood it. He was suddenly feeling it himself. "Not always."
Emotions were tumbling around inside her. Confusion. Desire. Fear. Excitement. "I'm afraid."
"I know." He reached out and smoothed away the line between her brows. "I'd never hurt you, Savannah."
She read the honest emotion in his eyes and knew that Blake believed he was telling the truth. But he was wrong. Because if she allowed this to happen, she would be hurt. But dear Lord, even that inescapable knowledge didn't stop her from wanting him.
As he gathered her back into his arms, Savannah could have pulled away. She could have. Perhaps she even should have. But all she knew was that at that moment, making love with this man seemed almost predestined. And incredibly right. She fought to keep a rein on her emotions, but try as she might, her grip just kept slipping away.
"I don't know if I can give you what you want," she said quietly. "It's been so long, and I never was very experienced, and—"
"Shh." Lowering his head, Blake brushed his lips against hers, tempting, tantalizing, tormenting. It was more a promise than a proper kiss—a slow, alluring hint of pleasures to come. "Don't worry about me. All you have to do is take."
Slowly, thoroughly, with great skill and even greater patience, he seduced her solely with his mouth. His lips were firm, but surprisingly soft. And infinitely persuasive.
Savannah no longer had the strength to resist. Her body warmed, her mind emptied. Her head fell back and with a soft sigh, she bared her slender neck in erotic surrender.
6
Kissing Savannah was like partaking of a feast after a long fast. Fighting for patience, Blake forced himself to go slowly. His mouth drank from hers with a gentleness he hadn't known he possessed; his hands moved up and down her back, his fingers dancing along the delicate bones of her spine in gestures meant to soothe even as they sought to arouse.
Kissing Blake was like falling into a dream. A blissfully sensual dream. Soft lights the color of precious gemstones—radiant ruby, shimmering sapphire, iridescent emerald—danced behind her closed lids.
Savannah wanted to think, to analyze every dazzling sensation, to ensure that later she'd remember everything about this moment. But as the tip of his tongue teased its way between her lips, she discovered that it was only possible to experience. To feel.
She felt the floor tilt beneath her. She swayed. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, her body curved against his, her soft sigh was muffled by his mouth.
They drew apart in unspoken agreement. He cupped her chin, his fingers strong and possessive, but heart-breakingly tender. "I've never wanted a woman like I want you," he said.
His deep voice, the smoldering heat of his gaze, his warm touch against her skin, all conspired to thrill her.
Allowing herself to drown in the depths of Blake's eyes, Savannah surrendered to the inevitable.
When he went to lift her into his arms, Savannah murmured a soft protest. "No. Here," she answered his severe, questioning look. "Now. In front of the fire. Before I come to my senses."
Blake's relief was palpable. They knelt on the rug, thighs almost touching. His fingers explored the planes of her face. "You are exquisite."
As she felt his touch skim over her scar, Savannah turned her head away. This glorious, reckless moment was one she would remember all her life. She wanted it to be perfect. She wanted to be perfect. More than perfect . She wanted to be the most beautiful woman Bl
ake had ever made love to.
Blake had never considered himself a particularly sensitive person, but he would have had to have been dense as a stone not to understand some of what Savannah was feeling.
"Don't turn away from me, Savannah."
She forced herself to meet what she knew would be his patiently sympathetic gaze. "I haven't been with a man for a long time. Not since…"
He ran his hand down her hair. "I won't hurt you."
"I know." Her eyes were glistening with tears she had never allowed herself to shed. "But there's something else. I have all these ugly scars," she managed on a strangled sob. "And I'm afraid when you see them, you won't want me anymore." Humiliated by the way she was ruining what had been a magical moment, she buried her face in her hands.
He parted the ebony curtain of hair veiling her face. "They don't matter. Not to me."
Gently, tenderly, Blake pried her fingers away from her face, one at a time, kissing each in turn. Then, taking hold of the bottom of her sweater, he pulled it over her head. Before she could protest, he was peeling her corduroy slacks down her bare legs.
She tried to turn away, but she was too late. He lowered his head and kissed her, effectively holding her hostage while his deft fingers unfastened the hooks at the back of her utilitarian white cotton bra.
In the amber glow of the firelight, she looked so fragile. And so beautiful. Although the light was dim, he could see a jagged line marching up the inside of her arm, a twin of those which twined around her thighs. There was another scar across her breast, dangerously close to her nipple.
"The plastic surgeons did a pretty good job on my face," she whispered. "But the others…" Her voice drifted off.
Desire warred with a murderous impulse—the need to comfort battled with the urge to drive to Sacramento, drag Larsen out of that cell where he was currently incarcerated and teach him the true meaning of pain. Moved too profoundly to speak, Blake lowered his head and kissed her wounded breast.
"There are scars, and there are scars, sweetheart," he said. "And believe me, yours aren't anything to write home about."
Savannah knew that he was talking about himself. She'd fallen through a window. But it seemed that Blake, during his relationship with Pamela, had fallen into hell.
Her hands went to his shirt, struggling to undo the buttons as her gaze held his. But her fingers had turned to stone. Finally, frustrated, she gave up and yanked, causing buttons to scatter over the floor.
Finally! Heady with relief, Savannah pushed Blake's shirt off his shoulders. His dark skin gleamed in the firelight. Unable to resist, she reached out and touched him. His flesh beneath her stroking fingers was soft and smooth. But the muscle beneath was hard and wire-taut. Savannah pressed her lips against that warm, moist flesh, drinking in its texture, its taste, his earthy male scent.
She was amazing, Blake thought dizzily. Hadn't it been just moments ago that he'd been worried about comforting her? About assuring her that he found her unflawed?
So how had the tables so devastatingly turned? How was it that with just the delicate touch of her hands, the feel of her lips against his skin, she was driving him beyond reason?
Outside the rain continued. Inside, a raging storm swirled. There was thunder. Savannah felt it when her lips skimmed over Blake's heart. There was lightning. She saw it in his eyes. Overcome with a heady sense of feminine power, Savannah laughed.
The throaty sound tolled in his head. At thirty-three, none of Blake's eighteen years of sexual experience could have remotely prepared him for this. For Savannah.
When her tongue trailed wetly down his chest, something in Blake snapped. Patience was forgotten. He pulled her against him, his hands greedy, his mouth hungry. In turn, Savannah arched against him, offering, challenging, daring.
The last of their clothes were whipped away, as if by gale-force winds. The storm—already all-consuming-intensified. If Blake was crazed, Savannah was obsessed.
He was a ruthless lover—wild, demanding, driving her toward delirium as he turned her in his arms, bending her to his will, tasting every fragrant bit of exposed flesh. But Savannah, feeling alive for the first time in more than a year, didn't want gentleness.
She clung to him, her nails digging into him, her legs wrapped like a vise around his hips, her mind cleared of anything but swirling sensations and a blinding pleasure just this side of pain.
His clever hands and wicked lips were never still as he drove her higher and higher, closer and closer to oblivion. And then she was tumbling over the edge, shuddering as climax after extraordinary climax slammed through her.
Blake watched her dazed eyes fly open. He heard her gasp his name. He held her until the wild tremors passed.
"You are incredible," he murmured against her mouth. "Absolutely incredible."
Savannah lay limp in his arms. She'd never known it was possible to feel so much. And then, to her amazement, it was happening again. All it took was the lightest of touches to make her arousal burst free again. As Blake slid his moist body over her love-slick flesh, Savannah was stunned by the way he could send passion throbbing through her so soon again. She took him into her. Deeply. Fully.
His hands linked with hers. Their fingers tightened. Rhythms matched. Outside the windows a full white moon rose. And so did they.
It was the silence that woke her. The steady sound of the rain, which had infiltrated its way into her sleep, had stopped. Savannah lay alone in the bed, momentarily disoriented by her strange surroundings. Then she remembered.
She was in Blake's bed. She recalled him carrying her down the curving staircase after they'd made love in front of the fire. That had only been the first time. Displaying a stamina that was nearly superhuman, Blake had taught Savannah exactly how responsive her body could be as he'd stroked and coaxed her to euphoric heights of ecstasy.
In return, he'd held nothing back, encouraging Savannah's exploring hands and lips to grow more and more intrepid until she'd learned to read his needs and desires as a blind woman would read Braille.
Every intimate aspect of the love-filled night flooded her mind, sensual flashbacks vying with embarrassment at her total loss of restraint. She closed her eyes, rubbing her fingers across her lids until she could see stars dancing against a background of black velvet.
What had she done? Spent the night with a man she'd only known twenty-four short hours. At the time, everything had seemed brushed with a romantic golden glow; but now, in the cold light of day, Savannah wished that she'd stuck to her guns and refused to consider Justin's proposition.
But then she would have missed a unique opportunity: the chance to score Blake's brilliant film—a film that could easily earn them both another Oscar.
The thing to do, Savannah decided as she pushed aside the tangled sheets and climbed out of the antique sleigh bed on legs that felt unusually stiff and sore, was to put last night behind her and move on.
She'd simply explain to Blake that although he was a marvelous lover, she wasn't in the market for any entanglements right now. It was important, for the sake of the work, that they keep their relationship strictly business.
She continued to give herself that little pep talk as she showered and dressed. Following the enticing scent of coffee, she headed toward the kitchen, relieved when she only got lost once along the way.
A brief note beside the enormous brass espresso maker/coffee brewer told her that Blake was down on the beach. The note didn't invite her to join him.
Deciding not to wait for an invitation, Savannah retrieved the slicker from the brass coatrack in the foyer and headed down the narrow tree-lined path to the sea.
The coast wore its morning gray coat of fog. It moved across the damp sand like low-lying clouds, making ordinary things—rocks, driftwood and stunted, twisted trees—into objects of mystery.
"Keep going in that direction and you're going to run into a dead end." The fog's odd acoustic quality made the deep male voice sound as if it were
coming from right behind her.
Savannah turned around, watching Blake emerge from the filmy gray shadows, as silent as a cat on a plush carpet. "The tide's coming in," he explained. "It's easy to get stranded."
She pushed her hands deep into her pockets. "Thanks for the warning."
Blake hated the way something inside him had moved as he'd stood in the narrow cove and watched Savannah making her way over the rock-strewn sands. He'd hoped that once he'd made love to her, once he'd satiated the desire he'd been unwillingly harboring for weeks, he'd have her out of his system, out of his mind. That had been his plan. But like so many best-laid plans, it hadn't worked out that way.
Instead, as his gaze roamed her face, taking in the soft shadows beneath her eyes—mute proof of the way they'd spent the night—and her bruised lips, whose taste he could still taste, even now, Blake found himself wanting her more than ever.
"You're up early," he said. His mouth was unsmiling, set in a grim line that was every bit as cold as the morning sea air.
"So are you."
Although they were only a few feet apart, an emotional chasm as deep and as wide as the Grand Canyon had opened up between them. Savannah searched his eyes for answers and found none. Was he angry? Was he regretting what had happened last night? Did he still believe that she was the type of woman who'd sleep with him in order to score his film?
Blake shrugged. "I'm not much for sleeping in."
His eyes were unfathomable black wells; his remote tone, worlds different from the lush voice that had caressed her senses long into the early hours of the morning. Savannah told herself that she should be grateful that he'd gone back to his impersonal, distant self. It would make her insistence on a business-only relationship that much easier.
"Neither am I."
They didn't speak for a long, nerve-racking time. Out over the icy waters, gulls dove for fish, their querulous cries echoing in the fog.
Blake had slept fitfully, awakening before dawn. Loath to leave the warm bed, and Savannah, he'd known that to stay would represent emotional perils he wasn't prepared to face. So he'd sat in a chair beside the bed, watching Savannah sleep. And as the frail yellow light of the rising sun gradually filtered into his bedroom, he'd seen the bruises on her arms, her shoulders. And although the thought made him sick at heart, he knew that if he'd pulled the rumpled sheets away, he would have seen identical bruises darkening the soft skin of her thighs.
