by Helen Conrad
But she was feeling very light-headed and she knew she had to do this quickly or she was going to keel over right in front of everyone.
“Class, I’m going to dismiss you now. I’d like you to go as a group to the closest coffee bar and discuss what we’ve learned tonight. Your assignment is to write up a full report comparing the various coffee blends—or teas, if you prefer—pick the ones that cost the most and try to come up with some justification for the outrageous prices.” She smiled at them dismissively, gathering her books together, feeling breathless. “See you all next week.”
Then she turned toward Michael and began to sway, feeling as though she were on board a ship in whitewater.
But he was there in no time at all, his arms coming around her, his strength saving her. She tried to open her eyes, but the way the room was spinning, she quickly closed them again, sighing, “Oh, Michael,” and clinging to him. All control was gone and she didn't care who knew it. Suddenly he was scooping her up, one arm under her knees, the other behind her neck. Instead of fighting it, she snuggled against his chest, eyes still closed.
Had she died without noticing? This certainly felt like heaven. Here she was a serious professional woman with responsibilities, and she was going to forget all about them. But she refused to feel guilty. She wanted to be with Michael more than anything in the world. If he would have her, she was ready. Anything, anywhere; it was his decision. She loved him so much, she couldn't do anything else.
So she lay back in his arms, her soft leather pumps dangling from her big toes, and rubbed up against him like a fluffy cat, purring her contentment. Nothing else mattered.
“Ms. Carrington has fainted,” Michael was announcing to the class, which was buzzing with astonishment. He bent his head to bury his face in her hair for a moment, and when he came up again, his voice was thick and husky. “I'm going to have to administer first aid, I'm afraid. She'll need a full treatment.”
“Where—where are you taking her?” one of the students asked in a quavery voice as Michael started toward the door, still carrying her.
“Don't worry. I've dealt with cases like this before.” He paused, looking back. “Will one of you please take care of her books? Take them to the office. And tell them she won't be back tonight. Thanks a lot.”
Shelley finally opened her eyes as they went out the door. The members of the class were still lingering, watching them leave. Reactions varied from outright mirth to frowning disbelief. She looked up groggily at Michael's handsome face.
“They're not doing anything,” she complained sleepily. “You'd think they could at least have the decency to call the police.”
He chuckled. “Now what would they want to do that for?”
“I'm being kidnapped before their eyes, that's what for. Don't you think that's worth a quick call to the local law?”
“Not a chance.” He pressed the button for the elevator, kissing her softly at the same time. “They know a love affair made in heaven when they see one.”
He carried her almost all the way home. If he could have figured out a way to fit her under the steering wheel, she was convinced he'd probably have carried her in the car, too, right on his lap. She insisted she could walk when they arrived at his apartment building, but he wouldn't hear of it.
“It's just an illusion of well-being,” he informed her. “Happens every time. You can't be trusted.”
“What do you think I'm going to do, run off down the street?”
But he wouldn't budge. So he lifted her and carried her through his parking lot to another elevator. She didn't complain very vigorously. His shoulders were so wide and comforting, and he smelled so good. She just lay back and enjoyed it.
“Here we are.” He kicked open the door to his apartment and carried her across the threshold.
“You should save that for your bride,” she chided him softly.
“What do you think you are?” he responded, still holding her.
She stiffened against him. What was he talking about? Was he joking? If so, it would be best to get it out in the open right now. “You once said not to expect any white lace,” she reminded him, trying to keep up the illusion that she was taking all this, as lightheartedly as he seemed to be.
“So, wear pink lace,” he grumbled. “Or better yet, don't wear anything at all.” His warm lips were just in front of her ear, dropping a soft kiss. “Don't bother me with details. I'm too busy loving you.” He kissed her again. “I want to love you all over.”
“Michael...” She struggled to sit upright in his arms.
He sighed. “Going too fast? You like a little more finesse, I suppose? All right.” He dropped her unceremoniously on the couch. “Would you like a drink, madam?” he asked formally. “A nice little meal? We can always have some roast chicken brought in. A soothing bath?” He bowed. “We aim to please.”
She laughed up at him. “A drink, please,” she said, mostly to give her something to do with her hands and a shield to hide behind while she got her bearings. “Something light and cool.”
She looked around the apartment while he left the room to make the drinks. It was surprisingly sterile, simple, and standard, with none of the personal touches she would have expected from a man with his vibrant personality. But then she remembered. He never stayed in one place long enough to put down roots. All of this anonymous-looking furniture was most likely rented by the month. She felt suddenly cold.
Her glance caught on something out of place. There was a photograph in a gold frame on the desk along the far wall. He couldn't have rented that, could he? Maybe it would give her a clue to his life. She rose and went to it. It was a picture of her.
“Where did you get this?” she asked Michael as he came back into the room, two tall drinks in his hands.
He came up behind her and smiled. “That picture has kept me warm on more than one long, lonely night. Cute, isn't she?”
“I don't know.” She picked up the photo and held it out, examining it critically. “A little perky-looking for my taste.”
“You think so?” He frowned at the picture, pretending to consider her opinion. “You may be right. Sort of cocker spaniel puppy, wouldn't you say?”
She met his gaze and laughed. “Thanks a lot.” Putting down the picture, she turned back to him. “But where did you get it?”
“Robin gave it to me the night I appeared in your apartment looking like something left over from a fifties motorcycle movie. She took pity on me, I guess.”
Shelley remembered the picture. Robin had taken it when they'd spent an afternoon in the San Gabriel Mountains a few months before. She wondered why Robin hadn't told her she'd given Michael a copy. It looked like her roomie was doing a little matchmaking on the side, no matter how much she professed to be a supporter of Shelley's failed plan.
Michael steered her toward the couch and sat her down. “So much for the small talk,” he announced. With one swift movement he pulled the pins from her hair and she shook it out so that it flew around her head like a bright golden halo. “Now I'm going to ply you with liquor. Drink up.”
She grinned, looking up at him. “Ply away,” she told him, “but it's not going to do you a whole lot of good if you don't do something about your own hair. Really, Michael, you look so silly. Do you always go overboard on your disguises?”
He pulled a comb out of his pocket and set his hair to rights. “This isn't a disguise,” he told her haughtily. “It's called getting a feel for the character.”
She smiled. “You're a character, all right,” she teased, then a frown crept over her face. “Man of a thousand faces.” She shook her head. “But who's the real Michael Hudson?” she asked softly.
He didn't seem to sense the unease behind her words. Spreading out his hands, he said, “What you see is what you get.”
Shelley made a sudden resolution. “Sit,” she told him, pointing to the far end of the couch while she settled herself in the opposite corner, facing where she wanted
him to put himself. “You're going to tell me all about yourself.”
“You want me to sit all the way down there?” he complained. “I'll have to shout to make myself heard.”
“Then shout,” she told him firmly. “I want to hear your whole history with no distractions.” After all, who was this man she loved? She knew almost nothing about him. What had made him opt for this crazy life he led? She had to begin to gather clues, at least.
He hesitated, then did as she'd ordered, looking grumpy. “You want to analyze me, right?” he accused. “You want to pick me apart, identify my yin and yang, pin me to the wall like a butterfly.”
“Why not?” Shelley was beginning to enjoy this. She laced her fingers together on her lap and gave him a level look. “You intrigue me.”
His eyes squinted as he stared back at her. “Is that a good thing?”
She shrugged. “That depends. Start at the beginning. Tell me about where you were born and what your parents were like.”
He groaned and shook his head. “Okay, here goes. I was born in a little town in the south. My parents…”
He hesitated. Was he really going to tell her the truth? Had he ever really told anyone before? He studied her for a moment, studied the earnest look in her beautiful eyes, the tilt of her head, the way her hair spilled around her face. His family was so different from hers. Would she be able to understand?
No, not really. But yeah, he was going to do it. Maybe not everything, but he was going to give her an honest outline of what his background was like. She deserved it.
He rose and began to pace as he talked.
“My parents were small-time crooks,” he said evenly, then waited a beat or two to let that sink in. “They robbed banks for a living. Or anyone who might have some loose change they could pilfer. They weren’t picky. We moved from place to place a lot, of course. If you’re going to rob people, you can’t stick around afterwards.”
He stopped and looked down at her, wondering how she was taking all this. She stared up at him, looking stunned and a little pale.
“Sorry,” he said softly. “But you wanted the truth.”
He started pacing again.
“It wasn’t all bad. Once in awhile they got caught and I actually got to go to school while I lived with foster parents until they got back out of jail. Then we were off again, grabbing the dough and heading for the next state line.”
“Oh Michael…”
He turned and smiled at her. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Shelley,” he said. “I did alright. And as I got older, opportunities presented themselves. I managed to get through high school staying with an aunt in Texas. I graduated with honors and got accepted at a state college.”
He dropped down to sit beside her.
“I got a degree in history and minored in drama.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “Drama?”
He nodded. “I was pretty good at it and it was a lot of fun. So I decided I wanted to be an actor.”
That surprised her even more. “An actor?”
He nodded again. “I went to New York. Spent some time in summer stock. Tried Hollywood. Even had a part in a television series that ran for two years. But something was missing. I hated standing around learning lines other people wrote.” His smile was self-deprecatory. “I was always sure I could have written a better script myself. But the whole thing was too boring.”
He was very close now, and suddenly his hand was stroking up along the inside of her leg. That startled her, but his touch seemed so benign. Anyway, she was too interested in what he had to say to want to stop him now.
“Then I gave it all up and went to law school.”
“That must have been boring too,” she commented.
He shook his head. “I was studying too hard to be bored. But later, when I joined a law firm, that was boring.” He sighed. “Still, I was learning about the justice system.” He looked into her eyes and shook his head, frowning. “And the funny thing was, I found out I really wanted to make up for what my parents did all those years. In fact, it became a regular passion for me.”
His hand was on her thigh again, and little shivers of excitement were sparking from his touch.
“So when I got a chance to do undercover work, I jumped at it.” He leaned close and nibbled on her neck. “It’s perfect for me. I get to act, but I make up my own lines.”
She sighed, half from contentment at his touch, half from concern at his life story. There it was again. He went where the action was. The feeling of dread was there in the pit of her stomach again. How long would he be happy with a stay-at-home like her?
No, she wasn't going to think about that. She was here because she loved him. She wanted to be with him for as long as she could, whatever that took. She wanted to lie by his side, to feel his blood quicken as she touched him, to take him to her and carry him beyond thought, into that magic place where the air exploded and fire lit the night.
So she didn't protest as he drew even closer, kissing his way up from her shoulder, nuzzling into the curve of her neck. Instead, she reached out and ran her fingers through his thick hair, gripping gently and pulling him against her.
“You are so delicious,” he breathed against her skin, exploring the sensitive area behind her ear. “You're almost good enough to eat.”
“Restrain yourself,” she replied lightly, closing her eyes.
His arms tightened and he rubbed his face into her neck. “And you said we were incompatible,” he purred.
“We are,” she breathed, closing her eyes and moving aside her hair to give him more room for seductive designs on her neck.
“Like hell we are.” He raised his head and looked at her. “You know what? You're a good actor, too. You'd make a great agent. Ever thought about that?
She laughed softly, stretching beside him. “I'm sure I would. Can't you just see me out there, catching bad guys?”
He laughed softly. “Why not? It involves very little physical danger, you know. Most of the time anyway. You enjoyed fooling the Weeks, didn't you? And good old Harry?”
She had to admit she had, but she'd been working under Michael's guidance. She couldn't imagine doing that sort of thing for real. The idea made her giggle.
“I did like it though,” she said musingly. “It was scary, but fun.”
“Sure it was. You could be good at it if I let you.”
“Let me?” She poked him in the ribs. “Who says you'll ever have that kind of say?”
“I do,” he replied with no hesitation. “Be still, woman, and let me ravish you.”
“I'm afraid I've never been much of an adventurer,” she said, reaching out to push his hair back off his forehead. How she loved his bright blue eyes—they seemed to see everything, know everything, and still be curious for more. “Do you really think I could learn?”
“All you need are sleuth lessons,” he said, eyes narrowing as he came close to nibble on her earlobe. “I'll teach you all the undercover operating techniques you'll ever need to know.”
“Hmm.” She sighed, running her hand across the rounded swell of his chest muscles.
“When I get through with you,” he murmured teasingly against her parted lips, “you'll live for danger, just like I do.”
She smiled and he kissed her, kissed her long and hard and gloriously, until she felt as though the walls were melting and the furniture were crumbling away to dust beneath them; as though a Wagnerian opera were taking place in her head and some fine Flamenco dancing were going on in her heart.
“Oh, Michael,” she gasped when he drew away, “I don't want to live for danger. I want to live for kisses like that.”
“That was just your first lesson, pilgrim. Undercover affairs are very complex, but you're a quick study, I can tell.”
His hands slid beneath the lapels of her suit jacket and then he was tugging it off. “The next lesson involves quick change,” he said. “A good agent knows how to move from one identity to another in the time
it takes to switch hats.” He began to work on the buttons of her silk blouse with careful determination.
“Kind of like Clark Kent in the phone booth?” she asked.
“Exactly.” Her blouse came off even more easily than the jacket, and she reached to pull his shirt out of its tuck into his slacks. “You never know when you'll need to make a fast getaway as anonymously as possible.”
She nodded groggily, reaching beneath the cloth to capture his warmth in the palm of her hand. He smiled and shrugged off the shirt, giving her free rein to explore his chest.
“An agent should know how to be seductive,” he whispered, taking her face between his hands and gazing down at her. “How to entice the suspect just so far and no farther.”
“Show me,” she whispered back, and he guided her with his hands until she'd arched toward him just enough to let him unclasp her bra and slip it off. Her breasts seemed to swell against his warm chest, nipples tangling in the curling chest hair, and she moaned, feeling her hips began to move of their own volition.
“Uh-uh,” he warned teasingly, stopping her with his hand. “You've got to learn to hide your reactions, to keep your emotions under wraps. Invincible bravery under fire. A stony exterior in the face of the enemy.” He grinned. “Never let on how good this feels.”
“I'll try not to,” she whispered against incredible odds. “I'll be brave. I promise.”
He pressed her back against the couch and began to explore her neck, her collar bone, the soft, smooth slope of her breast, with lips and tongue, licking, nipping, kissing, until she thought she would go mad with longing for him.
“Don't move,” he reminded her as his teeth closed on one nipple, tugging gently while his tongue caressed the very tip. His hand slipped beneath the band of her skirt, reaching under the silky nylon.
“Michael,” she gasped, no longer able to hold back. “Oh Michael, I need you so!”
His answer was more a low, animal growl than a word, and suddenly she found herself swept up in his arms once again. She closed her eyes, opening them when he put her on his bed. All she could see was the blue of his eyes, all she could feel was an overwhelming hunger that only he could fulfill.
