Passion
Page 9
For a moment she stood at the foot of the bed that would be hers, reluctant to sit down with him so close. When he told her to sit, though, she did so obediently, like a nervous schoolgirl: sitting on the edge of the mattress, back uncomfortably straight, feet together, hands pressed between her knees. He wished she would relax but knew that was hoping for too much.
He had a knack for that—for wanting the impossible. For needing things from people that they couldn’t give. He had wanted so much: affection from his mother. Acceptance from his father. He had wanted Tom to not be dead, had wanted Janie to make her injuries go away.
He had wanted to be a normal man with normal feelings and a normal life. But since he couldn’t be that, couldn’t have that, now he would settle for the life that had been stolen from him. It wasn’t much. But it was all he had.
“Your flight was supposed to leave at nine, wasn’t it?” He had looked at her ticket last night, had noted the time and the route—New Orleans to Charlotte to Richmond.
She didn’t respond.
“Was someone going to meet you at the airport?”
She so obviously didn’t want to answer that he knew the answer was yes. Not giving her an opportunity to lie, he went on. “With the hour’s time difference between Louisiana and Virginia, your plane would be arriving well after midnight. You wouldn’t want to find your car that late at night, not alone. You wouldn’t want to drive home so late all alone, either, not if you could avoid it. Who’s supposed to meet you?”
Dismay that told him he was right and embarrassment—because she was sensible and predictable? he wondered—warmed her face and made her voice thick when she mumbled an answer. “D.J.”
“Who is he?”
“She. She’s my best friend.”
He pushed the phone toward her. “Call her. Tell her you’ve decided to stay over a few days. Ask her to call your boss first thing in the morning and let her know.”
She didn’t reach for the phone, but she did at last look at him. “I can’t do that. D.J. knows me too well. It’s not in my character to just decide to stay over a few days, especially when I have responsibilities at home.”
He had no doubt that, ordinarily, that was true. But these weren’t ordinary times. This wasn’t an ordinary situation. “It’s not in your character,” he pointed out, his words deliberately mocking, “to take a strange man to your hotel room and fuck him, but you did it. People do things when they’re on vacation that are out of character… especially in a place like New Orleans.” Then his voice softened, became quieter, smoother, and more threatening. “Call her, Teryl.”
Reluctantly she pulled the phone into her lap. “Do I charge it to the room?’”
Standing up, he pulled a well-worn leather wallet from his hip pocket, withdrew his calling card, and handed it to her. She looked at it for a moment, reading the number before looking at him. “Simon Tremont doesn’t have a phone.”
“You don’t know that for a fact, do you? All you know is that Tremont refuses to do business over the phone.” Then he sighed tiredly. “You’re right. I don’t have a phone. But you don’t have to have one to get a calling card. Instead of a telephone number, the company randomly assigns a number for your use.”
Instead of sitting down again on his bed, he moved across the small space to sit beside her. He didn’t want to be that close—especially on a bed—and she obviously didn’t want him there, but he needed to hear both ends of the conversation. He needed to know in case she tried to give some sort of message to make her friend suspicious. Picking up the receiver from the phone in her lap, he forced it into her hand and gave a quiet order. “Call her, Teryl. Now.”
The phone was ringing for the third time by the time D.J. Howell stretched across the bed to answer it, using her sexiest, most sultry Southern voice. The moment she recognized her friend’s voice, she traded sultry for everyday normal. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Teryl, but it’s after nine o’clock Louisiana time, and you’re supposed to be on a plane heading home. Don’t tell me you decided to chuck it all and stay.”
“Would you believe me if I said I had?”
“Uh-huh. And pigs might fly. What’s up?” The flight had probably been delayed, she thought, wrapping the phone cord around her index finger, or maybe it had been overbooked and Teryl had gotten bumped. Those were the only reasons, short of death or disaster, that she could imagine making her oh-so-reliable friend miss tonight’s return home.
But even Teryl, she discovered, could surprise her.
“I, uh—I’m really having a good time, D.J., and I, uh… I decided to stay a few days longer. I have some vacation time left, and uh… money’s no problem—there are ATM machines all over the place—and I-I can change my return flight without having to pay a fortune.” Her friend paused to draw a loud breath, then rushed on. “I know I should have planned ahead, but I didn’t decide until tonight. Anyway, I’m glad I caught you before you left for the airport. Oh, and D.J., I need a favor—”
Eyes widened in exaggerated disbelief, D.J. interrupted her. “Whoa, girl, back up here. You just decided to stay a few days longer? At the very last minute?” Delight coloring her voice, she asked, “Did you meet a man, Teryl?”
“A-a man?” Teryl’s voice squeaked.
Grinning, D.J. rolled onto her back, plumping a lace-edged pillow beneath her head. “My, my, you did. Will wonders never cease. And here I was going to ask for the condoms back when you got in tonight. No need to let them go to waste.” She chuckled softly. “He must be good—damned good—to make little Miss Goody-goody behave so naughtily. Tell me about him.”
“Listen, D.J., about that favor—”
“Huh-uh. No details, no favor.”
“D.J., please—”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Pat O’Brien’s. D.J., I really need—”
“Getting picked up in a bar. Teryl, you slut. Is he handsome?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Well endowed?”
“Come on,” Teryl mumbled, and D.J. could easily envision her blush. “Don’t do this, not now, please. I’ll call you when I have a new airline reservation, okay? And tomorrow morning, can you call Rebecca and explain to her that I’m taking a few days of vacation?”
“You’re no fun, Teryl. I tell you everything about my men, and you won’t answer even one pertinent question about yours.” D.J. sighed her best put-upon sigh. “All right I’ll call Rebecca and tell her that New Orleans has absolutely corrupted our angelic Teryl, that she’s taken leave of he senses and is holed up in a shabby French Quarter hotel doing only the devil knows what with a handsome, sexy, an thoroughly dissolute Southern gentleman.” Then the humor faded from her voice. “Listen, girl, you be careful. These are my games you’re playing. Don’t let yourself get hurt.”
For a moment the silence was so heavy that she wondered if they’d been disconnected. Then came another burst of rapid speech. “D.J., listen to me. I’m in trouble. This guy—”
D.J. laughed. Trust Teryl to complicate even the simples one- or two-night stand. The most likely trouble her friend was having was reconciling her actions with her oh-so-good self-expectations. She demanded so much of herself, had such high morals and rigid standards. The fact that she’d had sex with a stranger was probably enough to scandalize her. The fact that she had apparently enjoyed it was definitely enough.
“What’s the problem, Teryl? So you’re finally discovering that sex without commitment can be pretty damn good. Don’t worry, little sister. One wild fling isn’t going to turn you into a slut like me,” she promised. “Have your fun. Us this guy up and wear him out. When you come home, it’ll be our secret. You can put your little halo on again, and no on will ever suspect a thing. Okay?”
After another silence, Teryl sighed and murmured, “Yeal D.J. Okay.”
“Hey, I’ve got to go. Since you’re standing me up, I’ve got plans to make. Enjoy yourself, and let me know when you’ll be home.”
Who ever would have believed that Teryl would one day do something wild and dangerous? For twenty-nine years she had been so safe, so dull, so normal. She was as reliable as mosquitos and muggy summer days in the South, as conventional as any middle-class, white-bread kid could be. Not once in twenty-nine years had she ever taken a chance—not with men, not with herself, not with life. She was predictable. Bland and boring.
And now she was off in some exotic city, getting laid by some exciting stranger.
And even in the middle of this hot and heavy affair, her prudish side was trying hard to make her feel guilty for it. How thoroughly, typically Teryl.
Rising from the bed, D.J. returned to the task the call had interrupted. She took a seat at the old pine table she had turned into a dressing table. Rows of frosted lights lit her face mercilessly, but she had no reason to mind. Her skin was damned near perfect, smooth, free of wrinkles—not the pasty, sickly white of so many redheads, but a creamy gold. The only flaw was a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and high on her cheeks, but they could be hidden by makeup. Nature had given her blue eyes, but contacts turned them green. Her mouth was a little too pouty for her tastes, but most men loved it. Most men said it was made for kissing.
Rich said it was made for something a whole lot nastier… and a whole lot more fun. Sometimes when he was annoyed with her, he said that cocksucking was her best talent. It damn well ought to be, she thought as she selected a lipstick from the tray on the table and twisted it up out of the tube. She’d been practicing it since she was thirteen.
She put on lipstick, blotted it, then applied it again. Her makeup done, she removed the band that gathered her hair at her nape and the yellow clips that held it off her forehead and let the dark red strands fall around her face and down past her shoulders. Her hair was long, heavy, and thick and could be a real burden in Richmond’s sticky summers, but she refused to cut it. She hadn’t had short hair since she was a teenager, when she had realized that men—many of them, at least—preferred long hair on their women. They found something sexy and sensual about it. That was the same reason for her curls, wild and unrestrained.
In fact, men—attracting them, seducing them, using and being used by them—were the motivation behind damned near everything she did.
Pushing away from the table, she slipped out of her robe and put on a nearly transparent cotton skirt and a thin ribbed tank top. If she were still going to the airport, she would be wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but if Teryl was getting laic tonight, there was no reason why she shouldn’t get lucky, too.
It was ten o’clock when she left the apartment, her destination an old farmhouse a short distance outside the city. A single light, glowing yellow against the night sky, showed where the driveway angled off away from the road. She had wanted to come earlier, had wanted to call in sick and come out here with lunch, a bottle of wine, and her always-willing body.
But Rich had said no. He was a hateful bastard sometimes He’d known how much she always missed him, had known how horny she would be, and he hadn’t given a damn. He had told her to wait.
Screw him. She had waited long enough. If he didn’t want her, plenty of men in Richmond did. She wasn’t going to spend the night alone.
The driveway was rutted, badly in need of repairs. She had to slow her sleek little Camaro to a crawl to avoid the worst of the holes. Rich hardly seemed to notice things like rutted driveways or wobbly steps or leaks in the old farmhouse roof. Of course, he had other more important things on his mind. He had plans. Ambitions.
She parked behind his car and climbed out. A bare bulb burned beside the front door, attracting a haze of gnats and moths. There were lights on inside the house, too, in the front room on the first floor, in the hallway, upstairs in his bedroom.
On the porch, she ignored the doorbell—it didn’t work—and knocked instead, three loud thuds that echoed through the door. He was never quick to answer, maybe because he always knew it was her. In all the years he’d lived there, he had once told her, no one but her had ever come to the house. He had no friends that she was aware of, no other women, no family. His life was tied up in her.
When two minutes passed into three, then four, she twisted the doorknob. It was unlocked. She stepped inside, closed and locked the door behind her, then let her purse and keys slide to the floor. Although the front room light was on, she would bet he was upstairs in his bedroom, probably naked, probably in bed. Possibly waiting for her? Had he suspected or hoped that her plans would change, that she would be free to come here tonight regardless of his lack of invitation? Was that why he’d left the hall and porch lights on, why he’d left the door unlocked?
She wanted to think so. She wanted it so badly that she hurt with it.
As she climbed the stairs, she became aware of the sounds of a television show. The voice was vaguely familiar—Tiffany something, the woman in New Orleans who had conducted the Simon Tremont interview yesterday. D.J. had seen clips of it on the news last night, had caught it again on a syndicated entertainment show. Sweet Tiffany had lucked out, the bitch. She’d gotten more exposure in the last thirty hours or so than in the entire rest of her career combined, all because she hosted a silly little talk show in the city where Tremont had set his five best-selling books.
Teryl had gotten lucky, too—a free trip to New Orleans, an introduction to her idol, and a good screwing by a handsome stranger who obviously knew what to do with whatever nature had given him—and all because she had no more ambition than to be Rebecca Robertson’s flunky for the rest of her life.
D.J. shouldn’t be surprised. Teryl had always been lucky, ever since she was four years old, and she always would be. If there was a prize to be had, somehow, some way, Teryl would win it. The rewards of virtue, their mother would say if she were here.
Well, the hell with virtue. She would take the rewards of sin anytime.
Stopping outside the partially opened bedroom door, she grasped the hem of her shirt and peeled it over her head. She was naked underneath. She found the feel of fabric against her breasts too sensuous to bother with wearing a bra. Holding the shirt by one narrow strap, she pushed the door open the rest of the way and strolled inside.
Rich was naked, he was in bed, and he was ready for her, evidenced by the bulge beneath the thin cotton sheet. He wasn’t as well endowed as she would have liked, but he had other things going for him that made up for the lack of size. Things like passion. Intensity. Unpredictability.
And just the right degree of cruelty.
He spared her only the slightest of glances before turning his attention back to the television. How many times had that Tremont interview been shown across the country? she wondered as she approached the bed. How many more times would they have to see it before everyone tired of it and went on to something new?
The bed sank as she knelt on it, shifted again as she stretched out beside him. He didn’t look at her or speak to her, didn’t reach out to pull her close or acknowledge her in any way. Sometimes he ignored her to punish her. Sometimes he did it to remind her of the derision he felt for her. Tonight, she knew, his attention was simply directed elsewhere—to the television screen, to the beautiful woman and the handsome man and the interview they were conducting.
She kissed his nipple, licked it, bit it, and felt a quiver ripple through him. She spread the kisses out—across his chest, his ribs, his belly, taking her time, licking, sucking, suckling, as she edged the sheet lower. She was kissing his belly, hard and flat, the skin rough with swirling dark hair that, only inches away, grew thick and coarse around his erection, when finally he responded, tangling his hand in her hair, pushing her lower. As Tiffany Whatever giggled and asked another of her inane questions, D.J. took him in her mouth, and as the camera moved into a tight close-up of a serious,
earnest Simon Tremont discoursing on celebrity, he came, filling her mouth in a hot rush. She swallowed rapidly, then sought more, as some idle part of her mind blessed Teryl and her dissolute stranger. This was where she wanted to be tonight, not at the airport, picking up her friend. This was what she wanted.
This was what she needed.
Damn.
Sitting stiffly on the bed, Teryl stared at the worn box springs on the other bed and directed angry, silent curses all around. Damn D.J. for not being able to get her mind off sex long enough to hear her plea. Damn John for taking her prisoner in the first place, for scaring her enough that she hadn’t tried harder to make D.J. listen, for sprawling over there on that mattress that blocked her only means of escape.
And damn you, she thought blackly, addressing herself, for being such a fool. For being sucked in by a pair of intense blue eyes and a rare, sweet smile. For being naïve and trusting and such an incredible idiot. For being too afraid to blurt out a cry for help that D.J., even while playing sultry, sexy, and naughty, couldn’t misunderstand.
Damn, damn, damn!
Across the room—that sounded so much better, so much safer, than saying five feet away—John was half-sitting, half-lying on the mattress. There wasn’t enough room between the bed, the dresser, and the door for the mattress to lie flat, so one side was level and the other curved up to block the dresser drawers; one end was flat, and the other leaned against the door. The only way he was going to be able to stretch out comfortably was to lie at a diagonal—not that she gave a damn if he was comfortable. She wanted him to share her misery. She wanted him to be just as exhausted, hungry, and despondent as she was.
Judging from the brooding expression he wore and the weariness that etched his face, at least that wish had come true.
Craving distance, privacy, and an escape from the blue gaze she’d found so flattering last night, she rose from the bed and went to the sink, yanking the plastic wrap off one of the cups there, filling it with tepid water, and taking a long drink. Her scowl deepened as her gaze connected with his in the mirror. So much for distance.