Clay

by Jennifer Blake

  Even as she recognized it, she was aware of the pull of another enticement altogether. He was a rare male specimen, more attractive than he had any right to be. There was strength in the firm mold of his jaw and the jut of his cheekbones. His long lashes made a shadow along the bridge of his nose. The beard under his skin made a blue-black shadow around the tucked corner of his mouth that tempted her to test it for the rasp of stubble. He was truly fine, so much so that it was probably ridiculous to think anything she could say or do would influence him an iota.

  She inhaled, slow and deep, and closed her eyes. Then she opened them again. She could only try.

  Ringo roused and lifted his head, his small face with its mask like a bandit appearing sleepily inquisitive. She picked him up and set him on the floor. Then she bent over the bed again and pushed her hands under her sleeping daughter with careful movements. As she nudged the flat surface of Clay’s belly, she halted, half-afraid that he’d wake. In that moment of stillness, she became aware of his body heat and the resiliency of his skin under his soft T-shirt. An odd tremor moved over her, like a small earthquake of the senses. Warmth invaded the lower part of her body. She caught her breath, swamped abruptly by such a wave of desire that she felt light-headed with it.

  It wasn’t fair that he could do that to her without moving a muscle, without even knowing it. She was supposed to be in control here. And yet, she should not have been surprised. She had always, in those long-ago days with Matt, been more responsive at this time of day. Lainey had been conceived, she was almost sure, during a long, sultry, afternoon of napping and making love.

  She’d almost forgotten. How could she have let it slip from her mind? It seemed impossible. Regardless, she didn’t remember the passion of that afternoon being this powerful, this irresistible.

  Clay didn’t move. It seemed an insult that he could remain unaffected. She was glad, however, since it gave her a chance to salvage composure. She waited a second longer, collecting her strength, then she lifted Lainey against her chest and straightened to full height. Moving as quietly as possible, she eased out into the hall and along it to the other bedroom. She settled her daughter with the sheet over her legs and her rag doll beside her then tiptoed out of the room and closed the door.

  Thunder grumbled almost directly overhead. Janna lifted her head to listen, then glanced down the hall toward the kitchen. Beyond the open blinds at the windows, she could see the leaves on the trees thrashing in a fitful wind. The noise of the air conditioner that pumped cool air down the hall drowned out most of the sound, but it appeared that a summer storm was heading their way. It would be welcome if it would cool things off for a little while.

  She moved toward the kitchen. Pulling the glass-topped back door wide, she stood in the opening. The wind swept in, carrying the marshy scent of churning lake water. She squinted against it to see the windblown waves of the lake rolling shoreward, reflecting gray under the darkening sky. They washed against the shoreline with the sound of surf, while farther out they wore topknots of dirty white foam. The outspread branches of the cypress trees swayed, shedding bits of leaves like tattered green lace, while their seed pods struck the water and short stretch of ground between it and the house like miniature cannonballs.

  Then she saw across the lake the white curtain of the approaching rain. It swept toward her, dragging a veil of fog behind it where the cool water hit the hot surface. The wind that lifted the tendrils of hair around her face grew cooler and carried the indescribable smell of newly wet earth. Then the first drops splattered the ground and porch steps with fat, liquid splotches. They rattled down, turned to a rapid drumming, became a steady roar.

  Janna could feel the tension draining from her to be replaced by reckless exhilaration. She breathed the moist air into her lungs, shook her head with a lift of her chin so the coolness could reach her throat and scalp. For a brief moment, she had the urge to walk into the downpour and stand there until she was wet to the skin.

  At a sound from behind her, she turned. Clay leaned with his back to the hallway wall and one foot propped against the baseboard behind him. He was watching her with a dark, almost hungry look in his eyes.

  There was no conscious decision, no plan or purpose. She simply started toward him. Her stride was smooth and even, her pace neither fast nor slow. Her muscles glided with the ease of internal heat. Her skin felt fresh and moist with windblown rain. Inside her was instinct and determination. She held his gaze, coming closer, closer until she could almost reach out and touch him.

  He blinked, then narrowed his eyes. Suddenly he wasn’t there, but was sliding away, stepping aside as if allowing her to enter the bedroom ahead of him. She paused for a startled instant, but there seemed nothing left to do except move past him into the room.

  Maybe she didn’t turn him on, after all? How ingenuous of her to assume that she could, at will, or that any feeling she had must be mutual simply because he’d made a few suggestive comments days ago. That would teach her to think of herself as a temptress.

  Voice brittle, she said, “This should cool things off.”

  “Or make them more sultry.” At her quick glance, he added, “I mean when the sun comes out again and the humidity rises.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose so.” She halted, uncertain of how to go on or what direction to take.

  “Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

  She swung to face him. “What makes you think that?”

  “Nothing really,” he answered, his gaze on a hangnail he’d discovered on his thumb. “I just got the idea that you might want Lainey out of the way for a bit.”

  He hadn’t been asleep after all, then. Or else her attempt to make him more comfortable by moving Lainey had disturbed him. Not that it mattered. He was waiting for her answer. Searching her mind, she grasped at the first thing offered.

  “Arty didn’t stay long this morning, and he didn’t seem himself. Anything wrong that I should know about?”

  Clay gave her a dry look. “Maybe he’s embarrassed because he couldn’t impress you by finding a bushel basketful of the Aphrodite’s Cup.”

  “Oh, please. Arty’s old enough to be my grandfather.”

  “He’s still a male and still kicking, isn’t he?”

  For some reason, that observation made her feel a little better. “I’m sorry he couldn’t find it.”

  “You had your hopes pinned on that plant for some reason.”

  She turned away from him, going to her desk where she picked up a drawing then put it down again. Overhead, the rain began to slacken to a slow drumming. Finally she said, “It was just an idea.”

  “But an important one.”

  Her lips tightened. “I could have used the money that it would bring. I thought…it seemed, somewhere in the back of my mind, that if I could just find it, then everything would work out for Lainey. She’d be all right. It didn’t happen, so I have to move on.”

  “To what?”

  What indeed? To escape her own thoughts as much as his question, she asked, “Are you sure Arty didn’t say anything? I mean, you wouldn’t think of keeping anything from me just because you felt I shouldn’t hear it, would you?”

  Clay tilted his head and he dropped into an exaggerated drawl. “Why, Miss Janna, ma’am, do you really think that, prisoner and all that I am, I’d care two bits about whether you were worrying your pretty little head?”

  “I do think so, especially if it was for your own good.” Her voice held no amusement.

  He stared at her for the space of a heartbeat, his gaze unrelenting. Then a slow grin spread over his face. “I probably would.”

  She was going to get nothing from him, which was a situation she should be used to by now. Clay could apparently leave at will but was still pretending to be in captivity. Why on earth would he do that when he didn’t seem particularly attracted to her? Or was it simply that he was suspicious? Possibly he’d recognized something different about her and was wary o
f the reason. His next word seemed to confirm it.

  “You went back out on the lake again this morning, didn’t you? Still no sign of the Aphrodite’s Cup?”

  She shook her head. “Finding it was a crazy idea, I see that now. Even if I could have synthesized the dye and sent a sample with a set of designs overnight to the company I work with, the legal work for a new commission would never have been done in time. My banker is a good man, but I doubt he’d increase my loan on the basis of some nebulous future benefit.”

  “Highly unlikely,” Clay agreed with irony.

  The look she gave him was harassed. “Thank you, I needed to have my stupidity pointed out to me.”

  “It wasn’t stupid,” he said, his voice dropping to a softer note. “Just desperate.”

  She gave a winded laugh. “Exactly. I don’t suppose you have several thousand you’d like to lend me?”

  He was silent so long that she turned her head to stare at him. His expression was sober and reflective. For an instant she felt something akin to hope. Then he gave a slow shake of his head. “Sorry. Can’t do it.”

  “I assume you have a reason?”

  “I don’t like this whole idea.”

  She lifted her chin. “So you’re morally offended?”

  “I’m afraid Lainey may not survive it.”

  “That’s my worry,” she said shortly.

  “So it is,” he said quietly. “Why aren’t you?”

  “Because,” she said in a voice like the scrape of fingernails on a chalkboard, “it’s a worry, not a certainty. No, she may not survive this transplant, but she will definitely die without it.”

  “There are legal channels.”

  “Which I’ve tried. Her blood type is O. The wait for a donor organ is a year or more for her type, compared to only a few months for the others. We’ve waited almost three years and been turned down twice as candidates because of compatibility factors. We’re running out of time.”

  “So how do you know this Dr. Gower will even check for compatibility beyond a simple cross match?”

  “I have to trust him.”

  “Even though he’s accountable to no known agency? What are you going to do if he slips up? Besides cry, of course.”

  The name she called him was not a compliment. Even as she spoke, she was swamped by a wave of despair. He’d put his finger squarely on her most terrifying nightmare.

  “She’s your daughter,” he said, the words even. “It’s your privilege to decide what’s right for her. In the meantime, here I am. What is it you want with me, Janna, a convenient baby-sitter, a sounding board, maybe an outlet for your frustrations over this deal? Or do you really want a sex slave, after all?”

  The temptation to tell him was strong, though she still did not quite dare. Even as she hesitated, she was struck by what he’d said. Why was he there? Why had he stayed, unless it was because he wanted something from her, maybe even the same thing that she had in mind? Given what she’d done to him, however, it could be that he required having her willingness spelled out.

  Without quite meeting his gaze, she asked, “Suppose I said yes?”

  “To which part?”

  “Any of it. All of it.”

  His face lost all expression, though whether from shock or cogent thought she couldn’t tell. After a long moment, he gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I wonder what you’d do if I put it to the test.”

  “You could try it and see.”

  “I could. But I have to warn you that it would change nothing.”

  He was wrong. She knew that instinctively. It would alter everything; just perhaps not in the way he had in mind. Her voice low and not quite even, she said, “I understand.”

  He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving her face. Lifting his hand, he brushed her cheek, pushing aside the silvery curtain of her hair and trailing his fingers through the long strands as if taking pleasure in the silky slide of it through his fingers. His chest filled visibly with the depth of his breath. Gently he cupped her shoulder, smoothing it with his palm while he circled her waist with his other arm and drew her nearer. Her pelvis grazed his with an electric sensation that she felt to the last, tingling nerve end of her body. She saw the pupils of his eyes expand, darkening the rich blue of his gaze to the shade of a midnight sky. Her lips parted. His features tightened then he bent his head abruptly and took her mouth.

  It was a tender assault of the senses, an introduction to everything he was, to his unwavering strength and the power of the emotions that coursed through him. She’d thought he was too quiescent before, and she’d been right. It had been a rigorously controlled pose, a cover for the complicated motives that propelled him. She could feel his anger and something more that was impenetrable but almost frightening in its intensity.

  His lips were smooth and warm, almost possessive, the touch of his tongue an assured invasion. She accepted it, gave herself to it and to the rising mixture of languor and excitement inside her. It was right, almost perfect, a promise of sweet surcease and impending joy.

  His grasp tightened a fraction, then she felt the easy slide of his hand under the loose batik cloth shirt she wore and onto bare skin. Without haste, as if exploring the texture and heat of her, he glided his fingertips from the indentation of her waist upward over her rib cage until he gently surrounded and captured her breast. Her nipple crinkled immediately into a tight bud. Unerringly he found it with his thumb and brushed it into exquisite sensitivity.

  Pleasure, relief and the distant intimation of something more fascinating made her feel light-headed. She melted against him with a soft murmur deep in her throat, wanting to be close and closer still, needing to be submerged in him. Lifting her arms, she wrapped them around his neck and shoulders and gave him total access to her mouth as she accepted right of entry to his. His answering groan was a bass rumble, as he took the kiss deeper while dragging her even harder against him.

  It wasn’t close enough, wasn’t raw enough, hot enough or naked enough. She was losing control, drowning in a hunger greater than she’d ever known. Moist heat spiraled inside her, threatened to embarrass her, particularly when he touched her, lightly, gently, at the very center of her being.

  He freed her mouth, drew a ragged breath. With the ghost of a laugh, he said against her cheek, “Your wish is my command, lady. What would you like?”

  “I don’t know. Please…”

  “Please you? I’d like nothing better. Only tell me how.”

  He was tormenting her, and enjoying it, while she was far past games or reason. “Anyway you like,” she whispered. “Use your imagination.”

  Imagination, that most potent of aphrodisiacs. His was limitless, and more devastating than anything she’d ever dreamed.

  She must have helped him, must have moved to the bed and tumbled to the mattress with him, must have released herself long enough to skim away the offending clothing between their bodies before coming close again. She hardly noticed. Or if she did, it didn’t impinge on the moment.

  She ached for the hot heaviness of his body, needed the certainty of his strength. She longed to be lost in him and never to surface again. His lips, his tongue were the center of her world for this short space of time. The wet hotness of his mouth on her breast sent her reeling deeper and deeper into this splendid oblivion of the senses.

  The planes of his chest were firm and lightly coated with crisp yet silky hair under her questing hands. His waist had not even an ounce of excess girth. His belly was taut, the surface flat and hard. And the rest of him was just as smooth and firm, taut and hard as his body. Yes, and hot, so hot.

  He didn’t rush, but gave her exactly what she needed, when she needed it. Delicate and gentle, fast and rough, he possessed her with teeth and tongue and soft, moist whispers until she could stand no more. Then he eased into her by degrees, giving her only as much as she could take, until she was stretched tight and full, until she could feel the throb of the blood that coursed through him, until
her body relaxed every internal resistance and she had him all.

  It was repletion, a slow-moving satisfaction so wide and deep that she could feel all tension leaving her, drifting away until she was left in breathless waiting. Then he began to move. The sensation was so exquisite that she gasped and lifted her hands to clutch his wrists. He broke her hold and clasped her hands, fitting them to his, palm to open palm, with fingers meshed. She clung to him while his every rhythmic plunge took her deeper and deeper into perfect beatitude. Never, never had she felt like this, as if she could go on and on in this astounding physical union, as though she had been made expressly for this high-impact rapture. She didn’t want to let him go, didn’t want him to stop, didn’t care if the world ended in the next hour so long as she was in his arms. With tightly closed eyes, she savored the glorious upheaval with every atom of her body.

  “Janna,” he whispered.

  Slowly she lifted her lashes. His blue gaze burned into hers. She felt its heat deep inside. His weight pinned her to the bed, wedged her thighs open so she was totally accessible, absolutely unprotected from him, and knew it. Slowly he twisted his hips, taking the last possible advantage of her warm, elastic depths.

  She imploded in blood-red wonder. Her muscles clenched around him and her body curved toward him. He took her mouth, pressing her back down against the mattress as he rode her internal storm, aiding it, abetting it. But not quite joining it. Not quite.

  The cry seemed to come from far away. Fretted with pain and terror, it tore at Janna’s nerves. In the same instant, she felt Clay shiver, sensed the hard tightening of his self-control before he was completely still.

  She opened her eyes to stare up at him. He met her gaze a long moment, his own dazed, almost anguished. Then he snapped his eyelids closed, spoke on something like a groan.

  “Lainey.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.