Dangerous Attraction

by Melinda Cross

  ‘Well, I guess I don’t have a hell of a lot to lose at this point. I might as well be the man you believe I am, and do what I’ve wanted to do to you since the moment you walked in my front door.’

  There was an instant of hesitation before his mouth crushed hers, as if he was still, even at this late point, granting her the freedom to stop him. And she could have stopped him—in her heart, she knew that, knew that truly taking a woman against her will would be reprehensible to him—but she didn’t. God help her, this way, or any way, she wanted this kiss at last.

  Only it was more punishment than kiss at first, lips flattening lips brutally, the counter-edge cutting into her back, the pressure of his fingers bruising her skull. But almost immediately his chest rose against hers with a caught breath, and she felt the momentary tremble of reluctance in his mouth as it softened and moved against hers. A rumbling sound reverberated in his throat, the helpless sound of a trapped animal, and his fingers moved in her hair with sudden, frantic desperation.

  My God, he’s out of control, she thought numbly, thrilling to the momentary sense of power it gave her, trembling when the thrust of his tongue snatched that power and made it his own.

  The sensation startled her so much that her lips parted involuntarily, admitting the wet, searching sweetness, meeting it eagerly with her own. Immediately her knees melted beneath her and she sagged against him, breathless with a strange, desperate, new kind of hunger that opened like a hollow cavern deep inside her.

  His lips were hot and wet and tugging and insistent, until he tore his mouth from hers with a gasp. His entire body trembling, he rolled his head to rest his forehead against hers, keeping their mouths a fiery breath apart. ‘God help me, I don’t care if you are trying to trap me,’ he exhaled in a shudder. His hands gentle now, almost tender, he lifted her face to his. ‘Think what you like, Rebecca. Goddammit, think whatever you like. I’m going to have this, at least.’

  ‘Trap you?’ she mumbled in confusion, quickly bringing her hands between them, bracing them on his chest while she searched his eyes in dismayed disbelief. ‘My God, you think that’s why I’m staying?’

  His body stiffened and he pulled back far enough to burn her with his eyes.

  She took a few quick breaths, trying not to tremble when her breasts rose into the rock wall of his chest. ‘You’re wrong,’ she insisted in a hoarse whisper, entreating him with her eyes to look a little deeper, to understand, to believe in her as she believed in him.

  ‘I’m not trying to trap you. I’m not like her…not like Charity.’

  The heat of desire still flared in his eyes, but the set of his mouth was tight, heartbreakingly cold. ‘You’re all like Charity.’ Cold air swept between them as he pushed himself away and dropped his hands.

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ she said in a panic that scattered her words like marbles tumbling from a can. ‘I believe you. I believe what you told me. That’s what I want to prove. That’s why I have to stay.’

  The muscles in his face were rigid and still, a rocklike substance pretending to be flesh. After a moment of unyielding silence he took a great breath and then spoke deliberately. ‘I’m listening. Explain yourself.’

  She clasped her hands before her, oblivious to the supplication evident in such a gesture. ‘I have to stay: I need to find something—anything—that proves Charity was lying. It’s the only way I can convince Victor. It’s the only way to stop the movie.’

  His dark brows twitched, narrowing his eyes briefly. ‘And why the hell would you want to stop the movie?’ he asked coldly.

  She blinked at him, bewildered. ‘Because it’s a lie.’

  His mouth twisted in derision. ‘Such nobility of purpose, Miss Hutchinson. But you’ll forgive me if I find that just a little hard to believe, in the circumstances. I seem to remember asking you earlier if you didn’t think you should verify the facts before writing this screenplay. Your response, if I remember correctly, was that you weren’t an investigative journalist. You didn’t give a damn if you were writing lies or not.’

  Rebecca’s hands worked nervously at each other. ‘I didn’t realize at the time.it never occurred to me then…dammit, I believed her. I believed the book. I didn’t know…’

  His expression was wary, almost hostile. ‘And that’s the point, isn’t it? One moment you were perfectly happy believing I was the Marcus Flint described in that book. Now all of a sudden you’ve done a complete turn-around. So what’s the real reason you were so willing to buy my story? What’s the real reason you’re suddenly so eager to champion my cause?’

  ‘I…I believe you.that’s all…’

  ‘Sorry. You’re going to have to do better than that. You’re a cynic, just like me. A pragmatist. Hell, you didn’t even have dreams as a child! You expect me to believe you’ve suddenly developed an idealistic streak? A passion for the truth? The hell with that. I just don’t buy it. What’s in it for you, Rebecca Hutchinson?’

  She gazed at him bleakly, seeing herself in his doubt, suffocated by the irony of it all. A man who couldn’t trust women aligned with a woman who had never been able to trust men. What a pair we are, she thought sadly; what an impossible pair.

  ‘I think it would be better for both of us if you just left,’ he said flatly, turning his back on her.

  She caught her breath in a panic at the thought of leaving, trying to convince herself it was only for him, not her. She was, after all, the only person in the world who believed he was innocent of Charity’s accusations. She was his only chance.

  He turned slowly and said, ‘My only chance for what?’

  She hesitated, startled that she had actually said that aloud. ‘To…to save your reputation…’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about my reputation. I never did.’

  ‘Then…then…to stop Charity from capitalizing on Johnny’s death.’ she stammered.

  His jaw clenched visibly and his eyes slammed nearly closed. ‘Very good, Miss Hutchinson. That’s an excellent reason for my perseverance, but it still doesn’t explain yours. Either give me the real reason you want to help—a reason I can believe—or get the hell out of my life.’

  Her chin dropped to her chest and she stared mindlessly at the black and white squares of the tiled floor. Because I believe in you, she answered silently, sadly. Because you touched me and changed- my life, and because I’m falling in love with you.

  She lifted her eyes to gaze dully at that cold, implacable face, and knew instantly that the one reason he wouldn’t accept was that single, preposterous truth. He’d laugh at the naïveté of an inexperienced woman who mistook passion for love, and she didn’t think she could stand that. Let him think she was as cold as he was, as calculating as Charity Lauder must have been; let him think anything except that this bright, golden core of feeling was laughable. It was too precious, too sacred, too fragile to withstand his laughter.

  ‘All right,’ she said quietly, her voice amazingly steady. ‘If you can’t believe in pure motives, how about a materialistic one?’

  His eyes lightened with interest and she knew she had him. She almost laughed out loud at the irony. She had to lie to get him to believe her.

  ‘Your version of the story will make a better movie,’ she said. ‘A hell of a movie, in fact.’

  He studied her intently, his expression guarded. ‘It was already going to make a hell of a movie. Even from my biased perspective, I could see that. A plane crash, survival against the elements, good and evil…what more could there be?’

  Rebecca took a deep breath and prepared to sell. That was what this was like, after all—pitching an idea to a producer. ‘A twist,’ she replied in a businesslike tone that rivaled her presentations to Victor. ‘Victimized women and evil men—it’s so common in real life, so heartbreakingly common, that the movies are full of it these days. But if you turn the tables, if you have an evil woman victimizing good men—that’s infinitely more interesting, particularly to the people who run Hollyw
ood. They’re all men, you see,’ she added wryly. ‘Men who will open their wallets to produce and promote a movie with a female villain.’ She waited, watched his face, then decided it wasn’t enough. ‘This is the screenplay that’s going to make me famous, Mr Flint.’

  He flinched, clearly stunned, then looked down and appeared to study the floor. He was silent for a very long time before his eyes lifted to hers again. ‘I’ll be damned. I should have known it was something like that. You’ve got yourself a real blockbuster here, don’t you? The chance of a lifetime to hit the mainstream big time.’ His mouth curved in a bitter smile of contempt. ‘Believing me—or pretending to—is just plain good business for you.’ Something in his eyes made her recoil a little. ‘I’ll bet you’re already planning what to wear to the awards ceremony, aren’t you?’

  She winced inwardly at the horrible prospect, at the chill in his tone and his eyes, but made herself smile. ‘Maybe.’

  His expression hardened. ‘And I suspect it will be very satisfying for you, cutting a woman like Charity Lauder down to size, striking out verbally at all the evil women of the world—stepmothers included.’

  The smile froze on Rebecca’s face as she felt the low blow of his words knock the wind out of her.

  He jammed his hands into his pants pockets and tipped his head back, releasing a long sigh through pursed lips. ‘Well, you may not be quite the woman I thought you were,’ he said quietly, with a shrug, dropping his eyes to look down his nose at her, ‘but that woman probably wasn’t real anyway, and frankly I was having a lot of trouble dealing with her.’

  Rebecca’s heart twisted as the corners of his mouth flattened in an unpleasant smile.

  ‘All right, Rebecca. Stay. We’ll look for your proof together. And you know the best part?’ His smile grew even more chilling. ‘With our cards all face up on the table at last, I don’t have anything to prove any more. I can drop this exhausting pretense of gentlemanly behavior, and it won’t make a damn bit of difference.’

  She took a quick step backward from the implied threat, but he simply turned to the long-neglected salad and carried it over to the table.

  ‘Shall’ we eat our lunch now? Then we can get right down to it.’ He raised his eyes and smiled, but only with his lips. ‘I find I’m very anxious to begin.’

  The silence over lunch crackled with things unspoken, with the uncertainty of two people who weren’t quite certain what to expect from each other.

  Rebecca chewed on an excellent sandwich she barely tasted, stealing a surreptitious glance at Marcus over the rim of her glass every time she drank. Each time she found his eyes on her, and each time she looked away quickly, embarrassed. He, on the other hand, stared at her continuously, and being caught at it obviously didn’t embarrass him in the least.

  He nudged the large salad bowl until its rim appeared at the edge of her vision. She shook her head without looking up. The bowl moved closer. ‘Eat,’ he commanded.

  Her lips tightened as she got up and began clearing her place. ‘I’ve had enough.’

  Marcus watched her bustling between table and sink, one brow lifting when she snatched away his dishes as well. ‘I take it I’ve also had enough.’

  She faltered for only a moment, then felt his gaze follow her as she darted away like an overwound toy.

  The wooden slats in his chair creaked as he leaned back, and he suppressed a cold smile when she set a clattering cup and saucer before him, coffee slopping over the rim. ‘You’ll never make it as a waitress.’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly my career choice anyway,’ she fired back.

  ‘Too bad. The quality of service aside, customers would love watching you move, especially in those snug little jeans…’

  She stopped at the table, jerked her chair out and sat down promptly. ‘Stop it.’

  The smile that pulled at his mouth was quite unlike any she had seen before—both lazy and full of purpose, all at once. ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Stop talking like that.’

  His blink was languid, unmistakably sensual. ‘I’m simply paying you a compliment.’

  ‘You’re being intentionally hateful. You’re mocking me.’

  His brows arched in mild surprise, but the gray eyes beneath glittered in a warning. Rebecca looked to the side abruptly, unable to meet the contempt in those eyes any longer. The sound of the faucet dripping punctuated the ensuing silence, counted off the seconds of the empty noise of things unspoken.

  ‘I’m not mocking you,’ he said at last. ‘I’m just not deceiving you any more. You were honest about wanting to stay to serve your own self-interests; I’m simply being honest about why I’m willing to accept your staying on those terms.’ He leaned forward across the table, and his voice seemed to drop a full octave. ‘I want you, Rebecca. I want you in the most elemental way, and, since my behavior has nothing whatsoever to do with why you’ve chosen to remain here, I see no point in restraining it any longer.’

  She jerked her head to look at him, blue eyes bright with the illusion of defiance she had always used to hide the pain. He was mocking her—mocking what she felt, by feeling so little himself, brandishing sexual attraction as if it were a weapon to be used against someone you hated.

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ she whispered, folding her lips together, perilously close to tears. ‘All I want to do is prove you’re not the heartless bastard Charity Lauder insists you are, and suddenly you seem driven to prove you are…’ Her voice cracked at the end.

  He looked at her askance, arms crossed over his chest. ‘Wanting you makes me a heartless bastard?’

  Her jaw tightened as she fought for control, for the scrap of dignity afforded by the pretense of indifference. He didn’t really want her; she could see that now; what he wanted was to demonstrate his power over her.

  She swallowed hard and tried to look severe. ‘Forcing your attentions on any woman who doesn’t welcome them makes you a heartless bastard. And, interestingly enough, that’s precisely what Charity accused you of, isn’t it?’

  His smile faded abruptly and his eyes chilled to silver. He was silent for a long time, and when he spoke his voice was frigid.

  ‘Let’s see if I’ve got this straight, and let’s put it in language that can’t possibly be misunderstood, shall we?’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘You’re going to use me to further your career, and because you happen to polish up my reputation along the way I should agree not to “force” my attentions on you. Is that about the size of it?’

  Rebecca bit down on her lower lip. No. That wasn’t it at all. The horrible truth was that she wanted his attentions, wanted them desperately. It was the coldness behind them she couldn’t bear.

  ‘Simply put,’ he continued blandly, ‘you don’t want me to touch you.’

  She blinked at him, the lie of either response imprisoning the words in her throat.

  ‘You know what, Rebecca?’ His chair clattered to the floor as he stood and moved quickly around the table, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her to her feet against him. ‘I don’t believe that for a minute.’

  She felt more than heard the soft, pathetic whimper that left her throat as his mouth came down on hers, but her mind shunted the information aside. It was already overloaded with a dozen other sensations—his fingers threading into her hair again, the pressure of his thumbs under her jaw, the ragged beat of his breath and the moist sweep of his tongue—all combined to paralyze her will.

  She stood with her arms hanging down at her sides, her head back, connected to this man only by mouth and the firm touch of his fingers, and yet she was helpless to move away, incapable of taking the single step backward that would break the connection.

  Every time her swirling thoughts attempted to coalesce, his mouth moved against hers, and the thoughts spiraled away in blinding pin-pricks of light.

  Thank God she had no control of her mind or body, or she would have had to take responsibility for the shameless act of her hands reaching to clutch feverishly
at his biceps, pulling him against her. The muscles hardened and bulged under her fingers, and then suddenly his hands were on her shoulders, down her back to her buttocks, pulling her against a solid hardness that made her heart fall from her chest to some dark, bottomless pit below her stomach.

  Suddenly he stiffened, exhaled sharply, and pulled back. Her eyes fluttered open, mystified, and she saw the strong, too rapid throbbing of the pulse in his throat, the flare of his nostrils as he breathed.

  Finally he dropped his chin and looked at her through narrowed eyes that seemed molten. ‘You have a strange way of showing me my attentions aren’t welcome.’ His voice seemed to grind against the words like a file on rusty metal. ‘I suggest you work on your rejection technique if you intend to stay out of my bed for much longer.’

  She gazed up at him without blinking, feeling herself go very still inside. Her thoughts raced, searching her mind for a clever, sophisticated retort, finding nothing but huge blank spaces where words had once been stored. During that process her body continued to send frantic, confused signals to a brain that had apparently shut down. One of them kept insisting that his hands were still on her buttocks, and that wasn’t quite proper, but it went as unnoticed as the rest.

  A little dazed, she felt his hands slide from her, then watched him turn and walk around the table to take his seat. She stood there stupidly for a moment, her thoughts as tangled as discarded yarn.

  What the hell was going on here? Did people really kiss people like that, and then just go and sit down as if nothing had happened? What was he trying to prove? ‘Just what are you trying to prove?’ She gave the thoughts a squeaky voice.

  He straightened at the table and glanced up at her, eyebrows raised, that mouth—that damnable mouthquirked in a smug smile. ‘Let’s just say I’m keeping you honest, Rebecca. Proving that, everything else aside, you’re just as hungry as I am. And that, my dear, is our final card on the table. Face up at last.’

  Her knees began to give way, and she sagged wearily into her chair, her eyes fixed on his. Hunger. Was that what he thought passion was? Was that what he called it when her body spoke for her poor, mute heart?