Banish Misfortune

by Anne Stuart

"Stepping out of character," he whispered. "And tonight when you moan and cry you're going to mean it." Springer's mouth feathered hers, softly, his tongue delving past her parted lips. "Aren't you, Jessie?" he taunted, returning again and again to her mouth like a hummingbird drawn to a flower. "Aren't you?"

  "Yes," she found herself saying, not quite believing

  it.

  With clever, knowing hands he pulled the caftan the rest of the way off her shoulders, down to her waist. She lay there passively beneath his touch, a slight smile on her face, as his mouth moved to follow his hands. "Your skin is like silk, Jessie," he whispered against her. "Smooth and creamy and untouched. Are you cold, Jessie?" He slid the rest of the caftan off her hips, the strong, callused hands warming her cool flesh. His mouth was at her breasts now, capturing one small peak, his tongue swift and sure and suddenly arousing, and his hands trailed back up her legs to her narrow hips. She could feel the emptiness in her belly sink lower, and the hollow began to fill with a slow burning that frightened her. She trembled in his arms, suddenly frightened, but his hands drew no closer, even as his mouth turned to her other breast.

  She was vaguely aware of him shrugging out of that loose white shirt, knew when his hand left hers to fumble with the clasp of his jeans. But she had lost her interest in practical matters. Technicalities no longer had the ability to distract her—instead of wondering how he was going to peel out of those faded jeans of his, she found she needed all her scattered concentration to deal with the unexpected longings that seemed to have taken over her body.

  He was warm and strong and hard against her as his hands and mouth once more claimed her. Her brain seemed to be melting in the heat of the moment, all practicalities fading away beneath the delicious, practiced onslaught. She could feel those strong, hard hands of his sweeping down her hips, and for a moment she panicked. She had no protection, but then, that was no real problem. She had played baby roulette once before and she figured she was safe—one more curse from an angry god. And she had no cream with her—Springer would find out soon enough that sex with an Ice Princess would come fraught with all sorts of discomforts.

  And then his hands slipped down between her legs, finding her with a sure touch that sent the coals in her loins into a burning blaze.

  She tried to pull away but he held her fast, one arm pinning her down as his mouth trailed damp, demoralizing kisses across her flat stomach, while his fingers stroked her into a quivering submission that was gradually turning into something else. She could hear small, whimpering sounds, tiny cries of pleasure and frustration, and she realized with a distant shock that the sounds came from her. She had meant to make the requisite noises to soothe Springer's male ego. Never had she thought that he could actually elicit that burning, seeking response from her.

  "That's right," he murmured against the gentle fullness of her breast. "Talk to me, Jessie. Tell me about it."

  She was fighting it. Fighting the spreading languor, fighting the bewitching heat of his body. Desperately she struggled to regain that part of herself that seemed in danger of being lost forever, but the effort was proving to be too much. Against her will her hips were arching against his hand, even with her strong white teeth clamped down on her lower lip the small cries were escaping from the back of her throat. And still he played with her, patient, determined to wrest the response from her that she didn't want to give.

  His large, strong hands were under her arms, pulling her up across the bed until her head rested on the pillows. The hands left her, trailing down her fevered body to her legs, parting them with inexorable gentleness. And then he was above her, dark and strong and menacing, like a fallen angel, and she knew he would take her, and she knew she would be lost.

  She made one last, hopeless effort to summon up the green pasture, the clear blue sky, floating, floating...

  Until the slow, steady invasion began to rip through the cloudlike veil, and her eyes flew open, staring up into his intent ones, as he slowly filled her, the smooth fluidity of his movement telling her that even if her soul wasn't ready, her body was.

  "Stay with me, Jessie," he whispered thickly. "Don't leave me alone while you go off to never-never land. Feel me, feel this." He slowly withdrew, then arched up to fill her again. "It's real, it's good. Stay with me, Jessie."

  She had no answer for him. She was lost forever, trapped, not by his strong, hard body, but by the long-dormant desires that had risen beneath his skillful handling. She could feel the tension knotting her muscles— from her toes, which dug into the rumpled sheets, to her fingers, digging into his strong shoulders. She could feel the quivers that were shaking her body beneath his. She was lost, out of control, with no place to hide.

  "Don't," she gasped in a weak cry. "Don't do this to me." The clear blue sky faded forever beyond reach, leaving only the midnight darkness.

  "I can't stop, Jessie," he murmured. "I have to." And his hands reached down to cup her slender buttocks as he thrust deeper, deeper, his muscles bunching under her clinging hands as he drove her onward, further and further, their skin wet and clinging, their breathing rapid, their hearts pounding.

  No, she wept inside. No, I won't. I won't let him…

  And then suddenly, in the midst of her protests, it shattered, the one inviolate part of her, and the midnight darkness split apart as her body arched up against his. She could hear her voice in the distance, weeping "no" to the angry heavens, and the rain of her tears washed over them.

  She was still crying, still mumbling "no" like a hopeless litany when he withdrew from her body, rolling onto his side and pulling her into his arms. One strong hand brushed the tears from her swollen face as he pressed her head against his sweat-slicked shoulder. "Yes, Jessie," he said softly, gently mocking. "Yes." And reaching down with infinite care, he caught one trembling hand as it rested numbly against the sheet. Bringing it to his mouth, he kissed the faint, spidery tracing of scars on the wrist. "Yes, Jessie," he said again. Her sobs were slowly, slowly dying away. "Go to sleep, love."

  "No," she whispered one last time. And slept.

  Chapter Eight

  The nightmare of memory was on her again, and there was no way she could fight her way out of it. She shivered in her sleep, pulling her hands closer to her body, protectively, and tried to fight the past. But it was useless, a vain struggle, as she lay there entwined in Springer MacDowell's arms and the mists of sleep, and remembered.

  The second time Jessica slashed her wrists was when Sunny had dropped out of high school, pregnant, and married her seventeen-year-old boyfriend. And the third time was when her parents wrapped their car around a tree out on Route One. The ironic part of it was that neither of them had been drinking. They'd both been going through a period of peaceful sobriety and relative sanity. It was another drunken driver who'd forced them off the road by pulling directly in front of them at a red light.

  To everyone's horror, Jessica had laughed when they told her, a short, sharp laugh. And then she'd calmly arranged for the funeral, every last little detail, from what they would wear, decked out in their twin bronze coffins, to what would be lovingly chiseled on the headstone, to who would baby-sit for Sunny's three-year- old and one-year-old during the service. And two weeks later, when everyone was gone, she went up to her solitary bedroom and slashed her wrists again.

  She did a better job of it that time. The cuts were deep, and she lost a lot of blood. They sent her to therapists, and she played mind games with them. They sent her to her stern Lutheran pastor, and she prayed with him. They sent her to her sisters, and she baby-sat for one and listened to the other's triumphant social life with glazed boredom.

  She joined Maren at the university for lack of anything better to do, and it was there she discovered her ability to make unpleasantness disappear. She kept cool and aloof from Maren's harem of jocks and scholars, and it was there that she acquired the nickname "Ice Princess." She was so completely different from Mar-en, who pursued an almost desperate quest
for love and approval. Jessica needed no love, no approval, no hasty fumblings and fevered couplings. All she needed were her brains and her blind ambition.

  She became adept at manipulating people by the time she finished graduate school, with the reputation for sleeping with her professors to get good grades. In fact, she slept with no one. She knew just how to play an ardent suitor along, without ever having to deliver the goods.

  The only time she'd ever been caught short had been three years earlier, just after she'd joined Kinsey Enterprises. For a brief period Philip Mercer had been able to charm his way into her armored heart, into her life, into her bed. And she had withstood it, with her mind sailing in the blue, blue skies, until Philip had given up attempting anything more than a physical penetration of her icy reserve and left her. And she was relieved.

  Everyone at Kinsey Enterprises assumed she was sleeping her way to power. And she was happy to have them believe it. It kept her peers at arm's length, convinced that she wouldn't bother with the lower orders. And it kept Peter Kinsey at bay, waiting for Rickford Lincoln to finish with her. But it hadn't kept Springer MacDowell away, and now she was lost.

  Jessica could feel the wetness of tears on her face, but she didn't dare move. Her cheek was pressed against a warm male chest; the even rhythm of his breathing told her he was asleep.

  For a moment she forgot where she was, the memories of her childhood crowding in around her. She had thought those were tucked far away in the past, where they couldn't get to her anymore. The last thing she needed was to have them crop up in her sleep, so that she lay crying in Peter's arms

  Except they weren't Peter's arms, were they? She had never slept with Peter. The tears dried on her face us she lay there, motionless, willing her body to stay relaxed in the stranger's arms, so as not to wake him and invite all sorts of uncomfortable questions. And he wasn't a stranger. He was Springer MacDowell, and he already proved himself to be the most dangerous man in her life.

  Slowly, carefully, she began to inch away from him, cursing herself for her inexplicable reluctance. He slept heavily, his face buried in the pillow, the silky black hair, which was longer than hers, tousled across his high forehead. She wanted to reach out and smooth that hair back, she wanted to crawl back into the bed and press her body against his. And the very thought horrified her.

  He didn't stir as she let herself out the sliding glass door. The sun was rising out across the Atlantic, sending peach-colored tendrils across the dark green water breaking on the sand. She hoped her own door had been left unlocked, that no well-meaning soul had gone to check on her during the night. The caftan hung loosely around her slender frame, her long bare feet made distinct prints in the wet sand, walking from Springer's room to her own. And she hoped no budding Hercule Poirot would be out early to check on her, to tot up the clues and come to an embarrassing conclusion.

  She would ignore it, she decided as she reached her door. She would simply pretend it never happened. Without question that was the most effective way to deal with it, with him. Last night was an aberration, never to be repeated. If she simply refused to accept it, it would go away, and things would be the same as they were.

  But they wouldn't. She knew that far too well. That blessed anesthesia was gone, and she had the forlorn feeling she would never get it back. Damn his soul to hell.

  The door slid back noiselessly, and Jessica stepped into her room. Lying in the middle of her neatly made bed was Peter, his pale blue eyes watching her with something akin to guilt.

  Carefully Jessica pushed a hand through her close-cropped hair, then managed a cool, not unwelcoming smile. "Good morning, Peter. Have you been waiting long?"

  "Most of the night," he said gently. "Are you all right, Jessica?"

  "Of course," she said politely. "I'm sorry about the scene last night…"

  Peter dismissed it with a wave of one aristocratic hand. "Don't mention it, darling. I'm only sorry that you had to be involved in something so distasteful. I had no idea that Lincoln was quite so taken with you. Not that I don't admire his taste..."

  So that's the way he was going to play it, she thought, stalling for time. She moved with her usual grace, seating herself at the dressing table, her back to him, his reflection clear in the mirror. She sent out a tentative feeler. "I only hope I didn't jeopardize the merger."

  "Don't worry about it. Lincoln wouldn't want any word of last night's little scene to get out. It doesn't reflect too well on him, you know, trying to seduce his host's girl friend. And the merger's too far along for him to back out without a damned good reason. No, everything should be fine. As long as..." He hesitated.

  Jessica frowned at her reflection. Here came the payoff. "As long as what, Peter?"

  "As long as you...we...can keep him reasonably hopeful. You know just how to do it, darling. A smile here, a touch there and just the hint of a promise. I've seen you do it time and time again, and strong men weep." He smiled his engaging, affable grin at her.

  "It's one of your greatest assets to the company, that charm of yours. I can't tell you how much I admire it."

  Her lips were swollen, she noticed absently, and the fair skin beneath her chin was scraped from someone's beard. Her eyes were swollen, too, from crying, and there was a flush to her usually pale cheekbones. She turned and managed a cool smile to her fiance. "I'm glad it's useful," she murmured, with just a hint of dryness. "And I know just how to handle Lincoln. I think you can tell your father that he can rely on me to retrieve the situation."

  Peter's relief was painfully evident as he hopped off the bed. "I knew I could count on you. I told Father that, but he wanted to make sure... that is..."

  "I understand," she said gently, and indeed, she did.

  Peter smiled again, his charming, Ivy League grin, which ill-became a procurer, she thought distantly. He leaned down and kissed her cheek—warmly, approvingly, she noticed. "You're looking very pretty this morning, darling," he murmured. "Different somehow."

  "Am I?" she questioned idly, toying with the silver-handled brush in front of her.

  "More approachable." Their eyes met, icy blue ones looking up into paler ones, and there was an uncomfortable moment of understanding. Peter was not a stupid man, and he knew very well what he was asking of her.

  She stood up then, looking directly into his eyes. They were the same height, a fact that had never bothered Peter, and his smile was warm, approving and only slightly anxious. She shouldn't do it, she told herself. She shouldn't come from one man's bed and go directly to another's. But she had to find out.

  Sliding her arms up around his neck, she brought her mouth to his, gently, questioningly, pressing her slight body against his silk-robed one.

  He responded instantly, ever the gentleman, she thought vaguely. He deepened the kiss with his usual suave expertise as his hands caught her narrow hips and held her against him. And she stood there beneath the onslaught of his embrace, a deep sorrow filling her. The clouds were gone, as she had feared, totally and completely banished. But with Peter, no desire replaced them. It was just a man's mouth on hers, a man's body pressed to hers, and it meant nothing. It could have been a doctor's touch, the feel of him was so impersonal. And yet she could feel his arousal against her, feel the wanting in his arms. It left her unmoved, and the realization devastated her.

  Slowly, carefully, she pulled out of his arms, managing a sad smile. Peter looked at her for a long moment, trying to read her reaction. But she had always been too adept at hiding her feelings, and he was no closer to understanding her.

  "Well, get some sleep, darling," he said finally, looking away. "Maybe we'll go sailing later. It looks as if it will be a lovely day." He moved toward the door, pausing there for a moment to look at her. "I love you very much, you know," he said suddenly.

  "I know," she said wearily, and she did. She roused herself to give her stock response. "And I love you,

  Peter." And as the words left her mouth she watched with no reaction at
all as she saw Springer's tall figure in the doorway, directly behind Peter's rumpled figure.

  Peter didn't even see him, didn't see that mobile mouth slashed in contempt, the dark eyes ablaze. A moment later Springer was gone, leaving the two of them alone once more.

  Ask me, Jessica begged silently. Ask me where I was all night, ask me who I was with. If you do love me, Peter, show me.

  But Peter merely smiled a foolish smile, blew her a kiss and walked down the hallway, closing the door quietly behind his graceful figure. Leaving Jessica to stare back at her reflection in the mirror, hopelessly, eternally alone.

  Chapter Nine

  The Slaughterer, vol 81: Pearls of Pain

  Matt Decker surveyed the carnage around him. Much as he hated to admit it, he bungled the last job. There were too many complications—the girl with the big eyes and the long legs. The lone kamikaze terrorist with the hand grenades. And his own sudden needs.

  With impartial care he stitched a row of bullets around the crowded Nicaraguan street. He had to remember he was the lone wolf on a quest for justice. There was no room for amazons in his game plan.

  "What happened between you and Jessica?" Elyssa's voice was diffident, hesitant, as she accepted the glass of Dubonnet from her son's strong, tanned hand. She did her best not to interfere in his life—she had learned from long and bitter experience that he had to make his own mistakes, and learn from them without his mother hovering over his shoulder, pointing out where he went wrong. But when her closest friend was involved

  "What makes you think anything happened?" Springer countered lazily, collapsing into Hamilton's sofa with the same tangled grace he'd had when he was fifteen. "I haven't seen her since the weekend out at the Kinseys's. That was.. .let's see—" he took a deliberately casual sip of his drink "—two or three weeks ago, wasn't it?"