Banish Misfortune

by Anne Stuart

The mouth never connected, the hands fell away and her eyes flew open again. Springer was standing there, an unreadable expression on his dark, beautiful face, ignoring Lincoln's glare of frustrated rage.

  "I'm sure you don't mind if I cut in," he said smoothly, and there was nothing Lincoln could do but acquiesce sullenly as Springer took her gently into his arms.

  "I'll wait for you at the table," Lincoln managed. She watched for a moment as he walked back across the room, his physical condition making him awkward.

  "You are a witch, aren't you?" Springer said lightly. His hands were gentle on her, not pulling at her, and the song changed, to something low and sweet and sad. "Getting an old man like that into such a condition. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

  "He did it to himself," she said, looking up at him, wondering if he had chosen to forgive her. He had rescued her—he knew that as well as she did. She could only wonder why. It was more than possible he had his own revenge in mind.

  "I think you ought to be restricted for people of uncertain health, like cigarettes and booze and salt. Dangerous for the blood pressure." There was a good three inches between them: not enough to be noticeable to anyone watching them but enough to be oddly frustrating. He was wearing a suit tonight, the first time she'd seen him in such a thing. The clean, European lines suited him, she thought absently, almost as much as that sexy white shirt he'd worn when she last saw him.

  But those were dangerous thoughts. "I hope your mother doesn't mind you abandoning her," she said lightly. He felt so good. That height gave her a feeling of security she seldom had, and the strong shoulder beneath her hand seemed made for her head.

  "She's the one who sent me to rescue you."

  She knew she was overreacting. She knew she should laugh lightly, thank him for his good services and finish the dance. But she was coming to realize that he had the uncanny ability to destroy all her polite defenses, to rip through the convenient social veneer.

  Without a word she pulled herself out of his arms, telling herself the devastating disappointment she felt was simple irritation. Without looking at him she strode back across the restaurant, skirting the dance floor so that she wouldn't have to come face to face with Elyssa's concern. Peter was alone at the table when she got there.

  "Lincoln had to leave—apparently he wasn't feeling well. Some stomach thing, he said. Are you going to let me see you home, darling?" Peter's pale blue eyes were diffident and far too knowing as he politely rose, ever the gentleman.

  She scooped up the tiny leather clutch purse. "No, thanks, Peter." She was pleased to hear that her voice sounded entirely normal, albeit just slightly breathless. "I'll see you in the morning." She pretended not to see him lean toward her for a good-night kiss, and a moment later she was out on the sidewalk, moving past the leisurely crowds at a speedy daytime Manhattan pace.

  A summer night in the city was usually one of her favorite times, but tonight she paid no attention. She moved swiftly, her high heels clicking on the sidewalk, ignoring the well-dressed couples, the curious glances, the occasional leer of a passing taxi driver. She needed to get back behind the pure white walls of her apartment, hidden away from other people's demands, other people's hurting. It was all she could do to keep from breaking into a run, but her long legs ate up the distance at a rapid rate.

  She was almost at her apartment building when Springer caught up with her, one of those strong, large hands catching her arm and spinning her around.

  The spiked heel snapped underneath her, her ankle twisted and she fell against him. His arms went around her, holding her close, and her close-cropped head rested on the shoulder that she'd longed for just minutes ago. "You move pretty fast when you set your mind to it," he said, a hint of laughter in the voice above her head.

  Damn, his arms felt good, Jessica thought helplessly, knowing she should break out of them and push him away, knowing that she wasn't going to. She was going to leave it up to him to release her, which he did, far too quickly. Squatting down beside her on the sidewalk, he took her long, slender leg in his hand, running his fingers over her ankle. She could barely control the unbidden shiver of delight that washed over her.

  "Do you think you can walk?" he queried, standing up again, one arm holding her balanced against him. "Your apartment isn't far, is it? I can carry you."

  "I can walk." Gingerly she set her foot down. It was painful, but she could make it. With his help. The thought was disturbing. "Why were you following me? And what's happened to Elyssa? Shouldn't you be seeing to her?"

  "Peter's taking Elyssa home," he replied blandly as they moved slowly down the street.

  "Oh, great," she said sarcastically. "What did Peter say to that?"

  "Nothing, of course. Doesn't he always turn a blind eye to whatever you do?"

  "You still didn't tell me why you followed me." They had reached her apartment building by then. The doorman made all sorts of concerned noises, but Springer very efficiently escorted her past him, up the elevator and into the hushed, airy confines of her sparsely furnished apartment before he bothered to answer her.

  She was leaning against the heavy door, keys dangling from one limp hand as she stared up at him. She hadn't bothered to turn on the light—the dim glow of the one living-room lamp she'd left on was the only source of light in the place. Reaching past her, he carefully locked each of the three locks, still without answering her question.

  "Why?" she asked again, her voice hushed in the stillness.

  He had both hands on either side of her, braced against the door, and she felt imprisoned by his long arms. The sheer size of him played havoc with her emotions—she felt both sheltered and trapped by him. "I could tell you we had to talk, but I don't think that would do any good, would it?"

  "Would it?"

  "I could tell you you're playing a dangerous game with Lincoln, but you'd only tell me you know what you're doing." His voice was low and husky and irresistibly beguiling. "I could tell you that Peter Kinsey, charming though he is, will never give you what you need, and you'll tell me that it's up to you to know what you need. I could tell you you're destroying your life and you'd just say it's your life to destroy."

  "Lovely conversation we're having," Jessica murmured. "And do you have anything to offer me in place of Peter and my career?"

  "No." It was said without hesitation, without regret, it seemed. And she accepted it.

  "Then why are you here?" She looked up into those dark, dark eyes of his, so unlike any she had ever known. She hadn't needed to ask that question; she knew. He had come for her, and yet the thought didn't give her its customary satisfaction, its feeling of power. It left her completely vulnerable, powerless and frightened.

  He could read that powerlessness and fear in her eyes, in the slight trembling of her mouth. "You know why," he said gently, and lowered his mouth to hers.

  The keys dropped onto the carpeted floor as her hands pressed against the solid wood of the door, seeking some sort of reality to combat the insidious assault on her senses. But the door was cold, unyielding wood, and the body in front of her was warm, strong and seeking. She used her hands to propel her forward, into his arms, as her mouth opened beneath his.

  How could there be such a difference between bodies, she wondered dazedly. Lincoln's arousal disgusted her, Peter's left her cold. The feel of Springer's desire sent waves of longing through her veins, a longing that frightened her. She wanted to pull away from him, but she couldn't. All she could do was twine her arms around his neck, threading her hands through that silky black hair, and hold him closer, closer. She needed him, needed his warmth and strength and power, needed to believe that he cared. It no longer mattered that his mother had probably sent him once more; it no longer mattered that Peter would have a very good idea what they were doing and didn't care enough to face it. Nothing mattered but the mouth on hers, the hands cradling her body against his, stroking, soothing, holding, as his mouth seduced her.

  His mouth broke aw
ay to trail warm, lingering kisses down the side of her neck. "Where's the bedroom?" he murmured against her skin.

  She stiffened, an unwelcome reality intruding when she least wanted it. She didn't want to take Springer into the carefully designed confines of her bedroom that was part and parcel of the formal, distant apartment, with its white walls and stark, modern furniture, its mirrors and white rugs and lack of welcome. "No."

  He didn't stop the demoralizing little path his mouth was blazing, and the hands on her body tightened just slightly. "Don't lie to me, Jessie," he murmured. "You want me just as much as I want you. And you know it, even if you want to deny it." His hands slid up her back to the neckline of her gray silk dress, and with the dexterity she'd noticed and hated before he began to undo the long zipper.

  She tried to protest, but the words wouldn't form in her mind, much less make it to her mouth. Besides, her mouth was too caught up in tasting the warm skin of his neck to answer. Even his prompting failed to penetrate.

  "The bedroom, Jessie. Where is it?" The dress was loose around her shoulders, only held up by his encompassing arms. A moment later it dropped to the floor around her silk-clad ankles, covering the discarded keys, leaving her wearing only a wisp of a slip and her panty hose.

  He had pulled away just slightly enough to let the dress fall, and she could look up into his intent, passion-clouded eyes, and for a moment her usual sanity intruded. Was he going to carry her off to the bedroom? Would he continue to undress her, and how was he going to deal with something so prosaically unro-mantic as panty hose? She had little doubt he'd do it with his customary deftness.

  A small, knowing smile danced around his mouth, as if he read her thoughts. "Stalling for time, Jess?" he murmured, his mouth dipping forward to lightly tease her lips. "It's a waste, when we both know what's going to happen. Whether I like it or not, I haven't been able to think about anything but you and that night two long weeks ago. I need you, Jessie. And you need me even more than I need you."

  If he only moved back a few feet, she might be able to regain some sense of equilibrium. It was impossible with the sheer, warm bulk of him mere inches away, waiting for her. "What makes you think I need you?" She put up one last fight.

  "Because as far as I can tell you haven't been loved very well at all. You need all the good loving you can get—your body's starved for it."

  She could feel a hot, angry flush suffuse that starved body. "Are we talking about love or sex?" she countered.

  "We're talking about bedrooms, Jessie. Where is it?" There was a decided edge beneath the mocking drawl, and then a look of belated enlightenment crossed his shadowed face, and she felt herself enfolded in his arms, one large hand spanning her slender neck and slowly caressing. "You don't want me in your bedroom, is that it?" he murmured. "All right, I'm flexible. The living-room couch, the bathtub, the kitchen? Just point me in the right direction." His mouth was teasing her pale, soft skin as his other hand molded her hips against his.

  She could feel the trembling begin in her knees, traveling up her thighs and settling deep in her belly. Her hands were at his chest, fumbling with the buttons, and she knew if she didn't feel that warm, sleek hide of him beneath her desperate hands before long she'd go mad. "The back bedroom," she whispered, so low she hoped he wouldn't hear. "On the right."

  But he heard, his mouth catching hers as a reward, before scooping her up in his arms with all the romance she could have wanted.

  He didn't turn on the lights before he lay her down on the narrow little bed in the study that served as her escape when things grew too overwhelming. It was her haven, her solace, the only place she felt safe and free to be whoever she wanted to be. And she had absolutely no idea why she had wanted Springer to take her here, to a room she'd allowed no one else in.

  He kicked the door shut behind them, standing over her as he fumbled with his tie. The streetlights were the only illumination as she lay on the faded patchwork quilt, looking up at him out of shadowed, wary eyes. His usual expertise seemed to have escaped him, for the tie knotted, and he had to yank it over his head, the buttons on his shirt caught, and he sent it spinning.

  He was yanking at his belt when he caught her eyes.

  "God, Jessie, you make me so crazy," he muttered, sinking on one knee on the narrow bed beside her. His hands were shaking and not at all deft as he stripped the panty hose off her, and he almost strangled her with the slip as he pulled it over her head. And then she was lying there, naked, vulnerable, the soft cotton of the quilt under her back, looking up at him out of longing eyes.

  There was nothing she could say, nothing she would do, to protect herself from his invasion of her mind and soul and body. And there was nothing she wanted to do. She had brought him back to her private room, and it was a secret measure of trust and faith that he would never even be aware of.

  It only took Springer a moment to strip off his trousers, and for a moment Jessica looked at him, in all his uncompromisingly aroused glory. She hadn't really seen him the other night, had done her best to avoid looking directly at Philip Mercer on the few occasions they'd been to bed together. But tonight she wanted to look at Springer, wanted to see him. But she wanted to feel him even more.

  She held up her arms to him, beseechingly. And with a groan he covered her, spread her, filled her with that strong, masculine beauty of his. Her body arched beneath his on the quilt, drawing him in even deeper as her legs wrapped around his narrow hips, and the arms clinging to his broad back were desperate. Don't leave me, her mind cried, as shadows and sensations beat like the wings of a thousand birds against her consciousness. And then, unexpectedly, before he had more than set up the age-old rhythm that had once disgusted her, the familiar-unfamiliar tightening gripped her, arching her up against him, as wave after wave swept over her. It was mysterious, overwhelming, indefinable, and she wept against him, her tears hot on their damp skin.

  He cradled her against him until the last spasm passed, and in sudden shyness she tried to pull away. "Not so fast," he whispered in her ear, his teeth capturing her sensitive lobe and nipping lightly. Another ripple of pleasure shook her body, and he laughed breathlessly. "Do that again," he murmured, biting her again. Her body trembled once more, and he pushed against her. "I'm afraid I'm not quite finished," he added politely, his tongue lightly tracing her tremulous lips. "And I don't think you are, either."

  She opened her mouth, to question, to protest, when he deepened the kiss, his tongue a warm, wet, powerful intruder, reminding her of his other intrusion. Slowly he rocked against her, drawing her with him, his hands firm and strong on her hips, holding her tightly. For a moment she wanted to pull away, to protest, her body weary and reluctant. And then the trembling began again, deep inside, with an even greater force. It was happening again, she thought with amazement, her fingers digging into the warm, muscled shoulders above her. It couldn't be, but it was. He couldn't... she couldn't...

  It hit her with the shock of a tidal wave, drowning her. She could feel him against her, within her, rigid with the suddenness of his release, could hear his voice, the rasping breath against her shoulder, the barely discernible words, love words, sex words, praise and pleasure tumbling from him. It took far longer to die away this time, and she smiled in exhaustion against his chest, holding him close against her. She didn't want him to leave her, ever; she wanted to stay beneath the warmth and strength of his body. She could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing slow, and she kept very still, willing him to fall asleep.

  How many times had she dreaded the thought of being trapped under Peter's body while he slept, blissfully sated? What had happened to her in the past two weeks, that she would want to lie here, crushed by a much larger body? She didn't want to examine her motives, didn't want to think about it. She recognized when his breathing slowed into the steady sound of sleep. Moving with infinite care, she arranged herself more comfortably beneath him. And placing an odd, irrational kiss against his shoulder, she closed her eye
s and prepared to join him in sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  She knew he was watching her. Sometime during the night they must have shifted around. Right now she was lying curled up against him, the old quilt wrapped around their naked bodies, and her eyes were still closed. Through her eyelids she could sense the slow breaking of dawn over the gray city, through her skin she could sense the curiosity of the man beside her. And for the first time in her life she wanted to snuggle closer, not pull away. For now, maybe she could fake it. How was he to know whether she slept or not? Maybe she really was sleeping. Otherwise, why would she want to move closer to the alien body in her bed? With a muffled sigh she stretched out her long legs, rubbing them against the even longer legs behind her, and wished she never had to wake up.

  Springer wasn't fooled. He'd slept with too many women, too many times, not to know when someone was pretending to be asleep. He knew when a woman was faking, before, during or after making love. And what still astonished him was her response. A response that seemed to surprise her even more than it surprised him. Someone must have handled her very, very badly when she was younger, that she'd come to expect so little out of making love. Not that he didn't do his damnedest to make it pleasurable for her, but he was, even with his experience, not as miraculous as she appeared to think he was. And her response still embarrassed her. He could see the faint flush stain her high, Nordic cheekbones, the cheekbones with not enough flesh on them, and a slow smile lit his face.

  Springer could very easily get used to the idea of showing her just how pleasurable it could be. Each time they made love she loosened up a little more, opened up to him. And for some reason that mattered to him, even knowing she was someone else's fiancee, heading to be someone else's mistress. A cold, ambitious lady, lying in his arms, pretending to be asleep, all the while her trim bottom was pressed up against him enticingly. He must be going through a midlife crisis at thirty-five.