Passion

by Marilyn Pappano

  They undressed quickly, the process made more difficult by kisses and tantalizing caresses, and he took one of the condoms she offered. They barely made it to the bed before he was inside her, deep, damn, so hard and deep inside her, stroking, thrusting, and kissing, hot, greedy kisses that demanded passion and offered satisfaction.

  It was wild and frantic, lasting only moments before he came, before she came with him, tremors rocketing through her. They lay for a moment, utterly still, utterly breathless, and then he grinned ruefully. “Damn.”

  Damn, indeed, she silently agreed as she raised her hands to his face. It had taken only minutes—only seconds—and yet her heart was racing. Her muscles were quivering. Her entire body was trembling with such intensity, such fierceness.

  As she stroked his jaw, he turned his head and placed a damp kiss in the center of her palm—a small thing to send such a shiver through her. When she glided her hands lower, along his throat, across his chest, over his nipples, it was his turn to shudder. She could feel it everywhere their bodies touched, could feel it best deep inside where her body still sheltered his.

  He repaid the pleasure of her caresses with a kiss, long, hard, and intimate, making love to her mouth, sliding his tongue deep inside, arousing hungers just satisfied and new ones not yet experienced. Just that kiss was enough to make her ache. It was enough to make her move restlessly beneath him. It was enough to make her arch against him, to shamelessly ask with wordless pleas for more, and that was enough to make him give it. Harder kisses, hot and wet, on her mouth, her throat, her breasts. Rough touches, squeezing, rubbing, his hands on her breasts, between their bodies, between her legs, making her groan. Deep, powerful thrusts, relentless, driving, pushing her higher, harder, drawing a second breath-stealing orgasm from her only seconds before he came a second time himself.

  He withdrew from her body and moved to lie beside her, gathering her close. Her heartbeat slowed, and her ragged breathing evened out as hazy satisfaction wrapped itself around her. If this was what came of being wicked on vacation, she thought, allowing herself one small smile in the near darkness, she would have to try it more often.

  The ringing of the telephone jerked John back from the drowsy fringes of sleep, his eyes opening wide, his heart, for a moment, racing. Many were the nights when his old nightmares had awakened him in much the same way, making him break out in a cold sweat, tightening his chest, and making sweet air hard to come by. Those nights he had usually found himself in unfamiliar places—he’d spent the first six years after Tom’s death on the run, trying to hide from the horror and the guilt—and he had always been alone. Tonight he was once again in a strange place.

  But he wasn’t alone. Teryl—long, soft, naked—was curled at his side.

  Shifting away from her, he reached for the phone on the night table, cutting off the second ring in mid-peal, and answered with a sleep-roughened hello.

  There wasn’t silence on the line—he could hear slow, steady breathing and, muted in the background, the sound of a television—but the caller didn’t speak. There was a sense of surprise, as if he—John knew it was a man, knew it with a certainty he couldn’t explain—as if the man had been so completely unprepared for anyone but Teryl to answer that he couldn’t quite deal with the fact that someone else had.

  John didn’t repeat his greeting, didn’t ask if anyone was there. He simply listened to the measured breathing and the frenetic commercial for the latest in new cars until, after a moment, the man broke the connection.

  After hanging up, John slowly resettled in bed, and Teryl snuggled right up against him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. How natural would it seem to her, he wondered, if she knew how rarely he had shared his bed with a woman? How comfortable would she feel if she knew that the only woman he had been intimate with in the last five years had taken her payment in cash rather than pleasure?

  Not to imply that Marcia had been a prostitute. She’d been a nice enough woman, alone after three bad marriages, with two kids practically grown, and trying to make ends meet on a waitress’s salary. Their arrangement hadn’t started as business. She’d been working the evening shift at a nameless little bar about twenty miles from John’s house, and he had been trying to drink enough to take the edge off the loneliness that sometimes seemed to envelop his life. When he had been the only customer remaining at closing time, she had invited him home with her, and, desperate to avoid his own company, he had gone.

  He had returned time and again, not often but regularly enough. She had never asked for money, had never hinted that she wanted anything more than he did—a connection, however brief, however meaningless, with another human being—but he had offered the cash and she had accepted. It had developed into a mutually satisfying agreement: the generosity of her spirit repaid by the generosity of his wallet.

  Then, after a time, she had told him not to come back. She had met a man and was giving marriage another try. By that time he’d been so caught up in the misery of Resurrection that he had barely missed her. He couldn’t even remember now how long ago it had been. Six months? Eight? Twelve?

  Too damn long.

  And now here he was with Teryl.

  For a moment he allowed himself the pleasure of stroking her hair. It was soft, reaching almost to her shoulders, and so fine that when he tangled it around his fingers, as soon as he released it, the strands slithered free again. Softness—feminine softness—was one of the textures missing from his life, and it fascinated him in all its forms: the silkiness of a woman’s hair. The gentleness of a womanly smile. The soothing timbre of a woman’s voice.

  The warm and infinitely soft welcome of a woman’s body.

  Teryl had certainly welcomed him.

  Leaving the television station with her had been a mistake, he acknowledged grimly, and seducing her had been a major mistake. If not for the fact that he had misled her about himself from the beginning, he would say that neither of them was more responsible than the other for what had happened here—the attraction had certainly been mutual—but he had misled her. He had concealed his identity, had lied to her all evening, had taken her to bed under false pretenses. She would never willingly help him now.

  So he would accept her unwilling help.

  He would force her help.

  He would give her no choice.

  Deliberately he chose to ignore the discomfort those thoughts brought. He was intimately acquainted with guilt; he had lived with the emotion for so long that it had become a part of him. Guilt over his own failures, guilt over Tom, over Janie, over the irreparable harm he had done his family… He could bear the added burden for using and abusing Teryl Weaver. If he accomplished his goal, he would salve his conscience by rewarding her for her help. Marcia had often told him he was a generous man. He would make things right.

  And if he didn’t accomplish it…

  Trapped in the softness of her hair, his fingers curled into a tight knot. He would do it or die trying. It was as simple as that.

  After a moment, he pulled away and sat up, then swung his feet to the floor. It was cool in the room—the air-conditioning had been turned low to combat the muggy June heat—and chills rippled along his skin as he tucked the covers securely around Teryl. Gathering his clothes from the floor, he carried them into the bathroom, where he flipped on the light and dressed without facing himself in the mirror. He didn’t need to see his reflection. He didn’t want to look into the emptiness that was his own face, that reflected his soul. He didn’t want to face himself, knowing what he was planning, knowing how he was planning to use an innocent woman.

  After a moment, he returned to the bedroom, standing for a moment in the doorway, letting his eyes readjust to the lower light. One lamp, its bulb dim and shaded, burned on the corner desk, and at the single wide window, the drapes were open, the sheers closed, softening and diffusing the light that spilled in from outside.

  The room was reasonably neat, as if, beyond sleeping last
night and dressing this morning, she had spent little time here. A few pieces of clothing were scattered across the dresser, and two pairs of shoes—three-inch heels and thick-soled sandals—sat underneath the desk. One of the heels stood perfectly balanced on the plush carpet. The other lay discarded on its side.

  Everything else, except the clothing she had hastily stripped off a few hours ago, was still in the suitcase. There was no briefcase to be found, and her shoulder bag, barely bigger than his palm, had room only for a compact, a tube of lipstick, what looked like about two hundred dollars tucked into an inside pocket, and a packet of tissues.

  Lifting the suitcase to the dresser, he made a quick search, hoping for something, anything, that might give him a clue about the man she had come here with. He found lingerie, a pair of walking shoes and cushioned socks, a cosmetics case, a bottle of reasonably expensive cologne whose fragrance now clung to his own skin, and a couple of Mardi Gras masks wrapped in newsprint and secured with masking tape. He didn’t find an organizer, a notebook, or anything interesting beyond her return ticket home. It was still in its original envelope, bearing the airline’s return address in the upper left corner, and was for a flight scheduled to leave New Orleans late tomorrow evening.

  He was returning the ticket to its envelope when writing on the back of the envelope caught his attention. Moving closer to the window, he pushed back the sheer curtain so a little more light fell on the hastily scrawled notes. There was the name of the hotel, the TV station, and the time for this afternoon’s interview. Underneath that, she had written, Simon, Wednesday, 9 a.m. Sheila??

  Was the man masquerading as Simon Tremont flying out at nine tomorrow morning, or did her note have some other meaning—a meeting, perhaps, or another interview? There was one way to find out: to be downstairs long before nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If the guy checked out before then with suitcases in hand, John would know he was leaving, and he could…

  He could do what? Follow him to the airport? Try to find out what airline he was flying, what flight he was taking, and where it was taking him? That wasn’t much of a plan. If they didn’t get separated in morning rush hour traffic, if he somehow stayed close enough to find out which airline the cab—or, more likely, the same white limo that had delivered the guy to and from the television studio—took him to, if he somehow managed to follow him to the proper gate and get a flight number, all he would learn was where that particular flight was going—and with his luck, it would be to some busy hub like Dallas or Atlanta. He wouldn’t find out anything about the guy’s connecting flights. He wouldn’t find out the man’s ultimate destination.

  Or there was his other option. Teryl. Letting the curtain fall, he returned the envelope to the suitcase before turning to look at her. She was so slender that it seemed she made little more than a long narrow mound under the rumpled covers. She was lying on her stomach now, her arms folded beneath the pillow, her face buried in its softness, her hair spreading out like rich, glossy brown silk. He swallowed hard as his arousal, so recently sated, returned again as strong as ever. He would like to take her like that—to undress and raise the covers and slide over to her, to kneel behind her, to lift her just enough to slip inside. She would have to rise to her knees to accommodate him, would have to tilt her hips back to allow him entry, would have to press her body downward to hold him there.

  Just the idea—her bottom pressed snug against his groin, the long downward curve of her spine stretching out in front of him, as intimately joined as a man and woman could ever be without any other contact—was enough to make him hard. Contemplating actually doing it was almost enough to make him come.

  Again he swallowed hard as he turned away. His face was hot—with guilt, with shame, and the damnedest hunger he’d experienced. His body was even hotter.

  He would be downstairs in the lobby tomorrow morning, and he would wait—but not for the man claiming to be Simon. He would wait for Teryl, and he would tell her his story, and he would try to persuade her to help him.

  And when she didn’t believe him? When she got angry, when she realized that she had spent her evening indulging in intensely passionate sex with a man who was certifiably nuts and the anger turned to fear?

  He would do what he had to do, and may God forgive him, because Teryl never would.

  Celebrity was going to be a wonderful thing, the man calling himself Simon Tremont acknowledged as a young brunette, dressed all in white and just a tad too eager to please, escorted him through the hotel restaurant and outside through broad French doors. The courtyard beyond was a popular place for hotel guests to breakfast on an early summer morning, when the sun hadn’t yet risen high enough to clear the building next door, when it was still reasonably cool, when the splashing of water in the stone fountain still sounded refreshing and the fragrance of the flowers planted in pots and beds around the tables hadn’t yet become overpowering in the heavy air.

  It was a truly lovely place… and for the next hour or so, it was off-limits to all hotel guests except those he had invited to join him.

  Ah, yes, after a lifetime of obscurity, celebrity was going to be fun.

  The others were already seated at the table closest to the fountain: Sheila Callan, looking tough and brittle in spite of the elegant cut of her clothing; her fair-haired assistant whose name he couldn’t recall, whose jobs included running interference and satisfying her boss’s every need, including, Simon suspected, those of a sexual nature; and the gum-chewing photographer with the expensive cameras that, as far as Simon could tell, hadn’t once in twenty-four hours come off from around his neck. They were all there and waiting. Waiting for him.

  All except Teryl.

  His jaw tightened. He didn’t need to check his watch to know that she was late. He had been deliberately late himself, had wanted to play the star role and keep them waiting just to prove that he could. Yes, he thought with a faint smile, it was petty, but he was Simon Tremont. He could be petty if he wanted.

  But Teryl wasn’t here. Teryl, who was along on this trip only because he had decreed it, had stood him up.

  He sat down at the table, accepted the damask napkin that the pretty hostess offered, and took the menu that she’d opened to the breakfast selections. So what was sweet Teryl doing this morning that precluded her from keeping their breakfast date?

  Most likely getting laid.

  He’d been surprised last night when he’d called her room on the off chance that she might be in, that she might be interested in meeting him in the lounge for a drink. The man who had answered had sounded barely awake… or barely recovered from a bout of hot and heavy sex. His presence there had been so unexpected that Simon had hung up without saying a word, which had been best since the only ones in his mind at that moment had been angry.

  It wasn’t that he begrudged a woman her fun. He just hadn’t expected it of Teryl. All of his contact with her—admittedly, little enough—had led him to believe that she was quiet, a little reserved, less than sophisticated. He had figured her for the type of woman who valued commitment ahead of physical pleasure. He had certainly expected some measure of caution from her; she was too smart to pick up a stranger, to invite him back to her hotel, to take risks with her safety, her health, and even, in these times, her life in exchange for one night’s diversion.

  But, apparently, that was exactly what she had done. She had gone to the Quarter, picked up a total stranger, and let him screw her.

  If Sheila hadn’t interfered and insisted that he return to the hotel with her yesterday afternoon, he would have gone to the Quarter with Teryl. Maybe he would have been the one in her bed last night. He should have been the one. After all, wasn’t he her only reason for even being here?

  Frankly, though, when he’d come up with the idea of having her come along for this interview, it hadn’t been with the intention of bedding her. It had been, plain and simple, a test of his power. Coming out in the open after eleven years of hiding behind his pseudonym, a
fter eleven years of living in anonymity, had been a new, frightening—and heady—concept for him, and he had wondered just how far he could push it. How much could he ask for? How much would being Simon Tremont get him?

  And so he had made his first request—Teryl’s presence—and Rebecca Robertson and Sheila Callan had agreed without so much as a blink of an eye. Next he had asked for a limo. For a suite in this, one of New Orleans’ oldest and finest hotels. For first-class, red-carpet treatment from everyone at the TV studio and everyone at the hotel. For the courtyard to be barred to other guests while he dined this morning.

  Little things, little wishes, and every one of them granted. Every one of them an affirmation of the power Simon Tremont wielded. Would that power have gotten him into Teryl’s bed last night? Maybe, he thought as a white-jacketed waiter served him champagne in a delicate flute and a plate of fruit—fresh, exotic, prettily arranged on a crystal dish. Or maybe not. Someday…

  He speared a plump strawberry with his fork and watched as the red juices dribbled onto the plate, then lifted it to his mouth.

  Someday he might find out.

  * * *

  Teryl was slow to awaken, in spite of the steady, annoying beep of the alarm clock on the nightstand. After a minute or two, she flung one arm out from beneath the covers, searching for the clock in its usual spot between the lamp and the phone, only to belatedly remember that she wasn’t in her bed in her tiny little house in Richmond. This was a hotel room, and the city was New Orleans. The Crescent City. The Big Easy.

  The city, she thought with a drowsy smile half-buried in the pillow, where being easy could help good little girls be very, very bad.

  Then she realized that she was alone in the bed, and her smile slowly faded. Lifting her head from the pillow, she listened for a moment, but the only sound was the soft whoosh of the air conditioner. She would have to leave the warmth of the bed and go around the corner to see if the bathroom was occupied, but already she knew that it wasn’t. John’s clothes were no longer scattered around the floor with her own, her suitcase had been retrieved from the floor where they’d dropped it and placed on the dresser, and the room simply felt empty. No one else was sharing the space with her.