by Brenda Joyce
“My lips are sealed,” Peter said.
101
It was easy to forget his role—his goal—and he let himself, because it was to his benefit to do so. It was easy, too easy, to really enjoy himself in her company. She was funny in a very wry way. She laughed at herself and at him. Making him laugh too. She was intelligent and opinionated, very opinionated, but somehow he found it stimulating. They discussed the industry, President Reagan, reincarnation. They argued about everything—with enjoyment. He found, to his complete surprise, that underneath her tough, aggressive facade, she was a romantic; and she found that under his easy, life-is-a-ball charm, he was cynical and wary.
Earlier that evening they had started to get into a conversation that was too risky. She had asked him about Berenger. He had tensed, feeling a reflexive anger that he got under control and managed to shrug off. For some damn reason he wanted her to know that the film was good, damn good, and that he had given his best performance ever in it, Oscar-contender stuff. He wanted to share that, wanted maybe to impress her, but he couldn’t—he had to pretend indifference.
“Aren’t you disappointed?” she had asked.
“Oh, sure.” He shrugged. “I got paid.”
Later, cautiously, he asked her if her mother knew about him. He wasn’t sure, but the look she gave him was funny, pointed. “Why would she know you? She hates cop shows.”
“I like the way you stroke my ego, Belinda,” he managed lightly. So much for that! Belinda hadn’t told him what he wanted to know—if Nancy knew they were dating. “Is she still staying with you?”
Another funny look. “Yes.”
This was a problem Jack had been considering. If Nancy saw him, the roof would go down. Belinda obviously had no idea about their brief encounter seventeen years ago. Of course, he couldn’t tell her; it would be taking a needless risk that could ruin everything. But why was his conscience crucifying him for the omission?
She asked him about his past, about the long lean years when he’d been struggling to make it. For some unfathomable reason, he didn’t want more lies between them. He didn’t want to give her the same cock-and-bull bio he gave the world. Instead he casually changed the topic to one he could discuss, one where he had nothing to hide, and he found himself eagerly talking about Rick.
“I’d like to meet him,” Belinda said later, just as they reached her house. They had been strolling along the beach, and now they paused on her back doorstep. “He sounds like a carbon copy of you. Imagine, a chance to meet the adolescent Jack Ford! I’ll bet you were dangerous even back then.”
“Do you think I’m dangerous, Belinda?”
She laughed, a short sound. “Very. Worse—you know it.”
He smiled. “I was a terror,” Jack said, his mind irrepressibly turning to carnal thoughts again. Carnal thoughts and Belinda. “Because I cared only about myself—about what I wanted.”
“And now you care about what other people want?”
“I care about what you want,” he said, his tone taking on the rough edge of sandpaper.
“Jack.”
If it was a protest, he ignored it. His hands found her shoulders. “You know I care about what you want.”
She swallowed, tense beneath his fingers. “If you cared,” she managed, “you wouldn’t push me like this.”
“Am I pushing you, Belinda?” he asked, leaning forward, his hold tight now, and nipping her throat. She swayed irresistably toward him. He emitted a groan. He rubbed his face in her bare decolletage; her hands wove into the thick strands of his hair.
“Jack.”
“Let me make love to you,” he whispered, languidly rubbing his cheek against the top part of her chest. “I need you so much. I want you.” Shuddering, he dropped a kiss in the deep valley of her cleavage. Tonight he wasn’t sure he could find the discipline and self-control he’d exercised on their last date. Tonight there would not be any more cock-teasing. “You want me too, Belinda,” he murmured. His mouth moved against her breast as he spoke. She shuddered.
“So good,” Jack whispered, nuzzling her, his hands moving to her waist. “You know how good I can make it. This time, Belinda, I’ll make it even better—I promise.”
“I’ve never”—she gasped as he nipped her breast—“had any doubts about your prowess or generosity in bed.”
“Good,” he murmured, taking her nipple into his mouth, silk and all. He backed her against the door. Her hands had found his hips and were pulling demandingly; but he resisted, not pressing against her, enjoying the teasing, the frustration, the anticipation. She began stroking hard, tight circles on his buttocks. He moved the silk blouse out of his way. He grasped both nipples between his fingertips, burying his face in her neck. She moaned, her hands sliding to the front of his pants, sliding over his huge erection. It was nearly his undoing.
“Damn you, Jack.”
“Who’s pushing now,” he managed hoarsely, squeezing her nipples, wondering if he might do something very adolescent—like come in his pants. “Lady, this is getting dangerous—we’d better go inside.”
The words died a fast death. Belinda had yanked his zipper down, letting his thick organ rocket out. “Ah, shit,” he said.
“Show me some caring now, Jack—now.”
As he pushed her skirt up to her hips, he had one last lucid thought—right on her back doorstep with her mother inside somewhere—but she was holding him, running her nails over the tip, and he jammed his thigh between hers. “I want to fuck you the way you deserve, Belinda,” he said. “Lady, you’ve got me in a topspin.”
She hooked one long leg around his hips, giving him a view of dark tangled hair and a glistening clitoris. “What are you waiting for?”
He pushed her hard against the door, bending, taking his prick and jamming it against her, thrusting in. “No more running, Belinda.”
“I can’t run, Jack, not tonight.”
Neither one smiled.
She locked her legs around his hips. They were kissing, teeth catching, tongues warring, entwining, while Jack pumped into her. “I’m not going to last,” he gasped against her mouth.
“Neither am I,” she gasped back.
Moments later they were both crying out, her wet, tight little cunt contracting around him while he exploded, sending blast after blast of hot sperm deep inside her. They were both panting, Belinda slipping naturally to her feet, his face buried in her neck. She smelled so good. She felt so good. Good. It was all he could think. Good. Belinda.
Eventually he became aware of her strokes on his back, on his neck—wonderful love touches—in his hair, on his buttocks. He felt his prick stirring, hardening, growing against her belly. She felt it, too, because she laughed softly. “You’re so easy,” she whispered.
He bit her shoulder playfully.
“Ow,” she cried, pulling away.
He lifted her in one motion into his arms, ignoring her protest. “Is this door locked?”
“No.”
He carried her inside, entering on the upper level. He laid her on the big Victorian bed, kneeling over her, kissing her sensually, gently. When he opened his eyes, his mouth still playing on hers, he found himself looking into her brown eyes. For a moment, maybe, their souls—or something—touched. With a brief flash of guilt Jack closed his eyes, nuzzling her neck and licking her ear. “This time we’ll take forever,” he murmured.
“Yes … forever.”
102
The first words she heard were “Oh, shit.”
Belinda sighed, eyes closed, then felt a pair of strong male arms wrap around her. Someone said, “Damn, I have to leave!”
She became more awake. Jack was holding her, kissing her neck, and a wonderful hard-on pressed against her thigh. The room was light, meaning it was morning (had she gotten any sleep?), and she turned her face to his for a kiss. He leapt out of bed. “I have to go, damn!”
She smiled, quite satiated, stretched, and watched him stride to the bathroom, w
onderfully muscled, an Adonis in the flesh. Coherent cognition set in. She knew she was a fool. Oh, the worst sort of fool! But to hell with it. She liked sex—so why not have it with the man who turned her on the most? Why deny herself? She was an adult, a liberated woman—she could handle it.
She had to be able to handle it.
Fool, her inner voice said. Too easy. You were too easy, and now the chase is over. Fool! You just wait and see!
Jack reappeared, eyes bright and wandering over her. “I don’t want to go,” he said.
“Why are you running like this? Stay.” She patted the bed. As if she didn’t know the reason for his hasty retreat. Tell me, Jack, she silently commanded, tell me now. Tell me the truth.
“I can’t. It’s seven. Got a meeting at eight.” Total lie.
“Okay, I’m going back to sleep.” Belinda snuggled back down, knowing it would be impossible to sleep. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him. She was such a fool she didn’t care that he was lying to her.
He sat on the bed and pulled on his socks. “What are you doing Friday? I know this great spot—you’d love it.”
“I have plans.”
He looked at her, then stood and pulled on his pants. “Okay. Saturday—we’ll leave first thing in the morning. It’s out of town.” He grinned. “Okay?”
She hesitated. “Jack, I’m going out of town this weekend. I’m leaving Friday, and won’t be back till Sunday night.”
His face fell. He turned away, picked up his shirt and shrugged it on. “Where are you going?” he asked casually.
“Santa Barbara.”
Jack laughed. “That’s where I wanted to take you.” He looked at her. “I have a house up there.”
“Oh.”
“Can’t you break your plans?” he asked after a pause. “And come with me?”
“No.”
“I see.” He reached for his belt. “You’re going with your mother?”
“No, I’m not.”
He yanked the belt together and stared intensely. “Who are you going with?”
She hesitated. There was no point in lying. “It’s not really your business, but I’ll tell you. Adam Gordon.”
Jack stared. Then he turned away rigidly. “I don’t fucking believe it,” he said, grabbing his jacket and whirling back. “You gonna fuck him too?”
Belinda sat up, clutching the covers. “You don’t own me. We’ve dated a few times, slept together once.”
“Twice,” he spat out. “Aspen. Remember?”
“I remember. Why are you so bent out of shape?”
“Me? Bent out of shape? I couldn’t care less if you go up to Santa Barbara with that faggot. Go right ahead.” At the door he paused. “Have a good time, Belinda.”
He slammed it after him.
He had just effectively ruined her day.
But maybe it was her fault. Why had she decided at that exact moment to accept Adam’s invitation? Adam had been pestering her all week. She loved Santa Barbara, and she had put off telling Adam she couldn’t make it. She really hadn’t wanted to go—not with Adam. It was her sane self that had just decided to go—her protective self, the side of her that knew she was hopelessly falling for a man who could only hurt her. She should go with Adam. It was not just unwise to let Jack get too close, especially so soon; it was dangerous.
Still, she hated playing games.
She got up, naked, and ran to the window to call him and tell him she’d changed her mind. He was trotting down the stairs, looking furious. She didn’t call out. Her pride demanded she remain aloof, even if they were sleeping together. God forbid he should know how much she wanted to be with him. God forbid he should know … and lose interest.
She hated herself for being that way, but she was too afraid not to.
Not just because she wanted him so much.
But because there was the baby to think of.
103
“Damn it!” Jack said fiercely, and then a moment later after a fruitless search through his drawers, he let loose with a string of curses. He couldn’t find his favorite sweatshirt for running.
He flopped on the bed, tense and coiled. To hell with it, he decided, and put on his least favorite sweats, and then he was out the door and running, right down Wilshire, hard, very hard, until sweat was pouring down his body and dripping off his chin. Forty minutes later, as he stripped for a shower, he realized he did not feel better.
His mood had been like this since he’d left her yesterday morning.
Today was Thursday.
Tomorrow she was going away for the weekend with another man.
Every time he thought of them together he was assailed with hot jealousy and fury. He had been so sure things were going smoothly—better than smoothly. He knew his charm, its effects, how persuasive he could be. He hadn’t quite expected her to give in and go to bed with him again so easily, but may be deep inside he had known she would. And it had been so very fine. Finer than fine. How could she even eon-template sleeping with another man?
His ego was seriously bruised. Worse, this was not the game plan. How was he going to get her to marry him if she saw other men? It never once occurred to him that she would spend the weekend with Gordon and not sleep with him. After all, she was a woman, he a man, and this was 1988.
To make matters worse, Jack was very aware of himself, and he knew he was jealous. Jealousy was not a part of the plan. It was something he had not counted on.
Tomorrow was Friday, and everything was set.
They would leave for Santa Barbara at noon, arriving by two or three if the traffic was good. They would settle in, then walk on the beach before cocktails. Adam had hired a caterer to do an intimate dinner for two, starting with Cristal champagne and canapes, then a delicate asparagus appetizer, a Caesar salad for two, grilled king salmon steaks with an excellent Chardonnay, chocolate mousse for dessert. More champagne after dinner. He didn’t intend to get her drunk, just high. A moonlit stroll and maybe skinny-dipping. Or the Jacuzzi. By midnight she would be in his bed—happily.
Although conventional sex bored him, he knew all the right moves, and she was going to receive each and every one.
When he was through, she would never know what had hit her.
He was so excited he canceled his last appointment for the day and went home early.
Where Cerisse was.
The problem was, she didn’t care what she brought.
Belinda stared at the open suitcase on her bed with irritation. How had she gotten herself into this? She didn’t want to spend the weekend with Adam. Who was she fooling? Oh—right!—Jack. She was fooling Jack, at her own expense. She had too much pride, which was and always had been her problem. A normal person would have backed out, but here she was, committed to a weekend she was dreading. And she absolutely would kill if Adam lay one hand on her.
She threw a sweater into the suitcase, then jeans, sneakers, boots, a pile of G-strings, some shirts. She slumped in a chair.
Maybe she should cancel, stay home, and when Jack asked—if he ever called again—she wouldn’t lie, not really; she would say she had stayed home because she had decided at the last minute to work. Now, that was plausible.
She remembered Jack’s temper tantrum before he had left yesterday morning, and she started to smile. He had acted jealous. Very jealous. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? As much as she hated playing games—and she was now becoming a master game-player—he was jealous, which meant that he cared to some degree. So maybe she had better go, if only to keep his interest up.
Then she grew sick and tired of herself. This was ridiculous. She was falling badly for that playboy bum. Badly? Hah! Completely was more like it. And as a result she was acting in a manner completely out of character, resorting to tactics she couldn’t stand, losing self-respect and her own integrity. She had even gone and gotten herself pregnant. She wasn’t going to play any more goddamn games. It just wasn’t her style.
What would Jac
k do if he knew what she was hiding from him?
Belinda grimaced. The question was pointless. She could never tell him. Ever. It would be the worst kind of manipulation.
And that wasn’t her style either.
Mary went shopping.
She went to Giorgio. She didn’t find a thing that didn’t make her look like a cow. From there she went across the street to Armani. Hours later, she hit Neiman-Marcus. In Vicky Tiel she struck pay dirt.
The dress was a bright royal blue. The bodice was extremely low, strapless, revealing most of her white bosom. Her best asset. The waist was nipped in, making it look smaller than it was. The skirt billowed out, cut on a bias, revealing all of both her calves and ankles, which were perfectly shaped, and then her right knee and half that thigh. Somehow, it was a knockout. She looked ten pounds thinner. Gorgeous.
The saleslady sent her downstairs to a makeup artist at Chanel. Worried about the time, Mary nevertheless had her makeup done from scratch—soft shades of pink for her cheeks and lips, subtly done eyes in a soft blue that she had never known she could wear. It was dynamite with her big brown eyes, making them look bigger and browner. When she went home she showered carefully, so as not to ruin her face, then blow-dried her hair upside down to give it volume. She slipped on the dress, added several dabs of her new perfume, and waited for the car Abe was sending to pick her up.
He was taking her to dinner. He had told her to get dressed up, and when Mary had said she didn’t have anything to wear, he had given her a thousand dollars. Mary had tried to protest. But she was secretly thrilled.
“I want to show you off.” Abe had grinned, pulling her close and fondling her.
The fondling quickly led to another round of mindless, orgasmic sex. “I can’t seem to keep it down around you,” he said later, chuckling.
“I don’t mind,” Mary had said truthfully.
She didn’t mind the money, either, or the silver stretch limo that arrived shortly after she was ready.
