Nighttime Sweethearts

by Cara Colter

  He sighed. "I think I should have put the scarf over your mouth instead of your eyes. Shh. Enjoy."

  "Enjoy what?" she demanded, feeling her power slipping away from her, wanting to beg him to touch her shoulder with his lips again. "I'm being kidnapped by a lunatic."

  "Sometimes when vision goes, other senses are heightened," he told her softly. "Can you feel that? Can you focus on what you are sensing now that you might have not ever noticed before?"

  She had never noticed before that a man's lips on a woman's shoulder could turn her to putty, something compliable and waiting to be molded.

  She was going to make a smart-aleck remark, something that hid the intensity of what she was experiencing rather than reveal it, but something stopped her.

  She was suddenly aware that her captor was speaking from experience. Was he blind? Obviously not. But his vision might be impaired. A strange time to remember one of the facts she had learned about bears, but remember it she did.

  Bears had extremely poor eyesight. They compensated. Their other senses were uncanny, especially their ability to smell and hear.

  She felt herself surrender slightly more. The silk scarf tied around her eyes threw her into a world of blindness, and yet she was left with the exquisite sensation of every other sense being heightened. Even the silk pressed against her eyes—knotted on the back of her scalp, touching her cheeks—created a blissful sensation.

  His scent and his touch became her world. He smelled of good things, real things, earth and soap, a clean masculine scent that was heady.

  And his touch radiated unconscious strength, mastery.

  She was blind and yet as she leaned into him and let him guide her down the path, she felt increasingly as though she could see for the very first time. She could see a world that held endless promise, a world of magic, a world where what was unseen was as important as what was seen.

  She could feel the strength of his spirit, and again she was left with a sense of knowing who he was, totally, completely. Seeing him might only have distracted her.

  Cynthia was aware that when you saw people you made judgments. They were too short or too tall or too thin or too heavy. Their noses were too sharp or their lips were too pursed. And all those judgments could keep a woman from experiencing what she was experiencing right now.

  Hope.

  Hope that perhaps a power called love really did exist after all. Love?

  "Whoa," she said out loud, and inwardly she scolded herself, way too fast, girl.

  And that described the beating of her heart, way too fast, as if she was standing on a cliff overlooking a deep and inviting tropical pond, trying to decide whether to jump.

  He thought her uttered directive meant she had lost her footing and his grip on her tightened.

  "All right?" he growled in her ear.

  She could not say never better! Could she? No, it would reveal far too much about her pathetic life. So, she just leaned closer into his proffered strength, wondering when she had last allowed herself to lean. She loved independence. She loved being an independent woman. How could it possibly feel so good to allow another to take charge and lead?

  "Where are you taking me?" she asked again, but this time she didn't mean just physically. What unexplored regions of her heart were about to be explored? Was she ready?

  "I'm taking you to a place of such inky darkness that you cannot tell where the sea ends and the night begins, to a place where darkness blurs the lines between what is real and what is not."

  Cynthia shivered. The words were eerily similar to the ones Merry had used in creating the setting for the legend she had told her.

  "What are we going to do there?" Cynthia asked.

  He laughed softly, and his voice was a caress in her ear. "Swim. Eat. Talk. We are going to find the sun in total darkness."

  "Ah," she said, and could not keep the bliss from her voice, "a poet kidnapper."

  "Some women inspire poetry," he said.

  She actually tripped in surprise, then felt his arm steadying her. "And I'm not one of them!"

  "Whatever gave you such a ridiculous idea?" he said gruffly, with disapproval. His voice was low and throaty, and even though she could not see him, those heightened senses told her exactly what was going to happen next.

  He stopped, and she felt him move to stand in front of her. His fingers rested lightly on the nakedness of her shoulders, and then one hand moved to touch the bottom of her chin and lift it up.

  She could feel him studying her intently. She sensed his appreciation and wanted desperately to study him in return.

  But before the urge became too powerful to resist and she pulled the white silk mask away from her eyes, his lips touched hers.

  Not as they had last night. Not with domination, not as part of a wicked game, but gently, in greeting, in welcome.

  "Oh, God," she managed to whisper against the softness of his lips, before she gave herself over to him and to all he promised. Her lips parted under the gentle pressure of his. She felt the steely strength in his arms as he gathered her close. She was stunned by the sensation of touching him so intimately, her body quivering against the length of his. For the first time, she felt the physical power of him and realized she had underestimated it. She felt it all—the broad, hard planes of his chest, the flatness of his belly, the powerful leanness of his legs.

  She could have pulled away, and perhaps she should have pulled away, but she didn't. She pressed herself closer to him, greedy for his warmth and power, captivated completely by the searing energy of him.

  His kiss deepened as she pushed closer. Far-off waves suddenly seemed to be crashing inside her own head. He tasted of rain and truth and the earth and secrets deep and lovely.

  He had been absolutely right. The sun was coming out in her darkness.

  And then, abruptly, with no warning, he lifted his lips from hers. She heard the tiniest mew of protest leave her own lips as they experienced the terrible sense of loss.

  Muscles that had been relaxed, tensed. He was like an animal, alert to dangers she could not begin to sense. But she guessed he was listening, hearing something that she didn't hear.

  "What?" she asked. She curled her arm around his neck, trying shamelessly to pull him back to her. But he disengaged her, and the contact between them was lost.

  She sensed him move away from her, silent as the night, and then he stepped back behind her one last time.

  He kissed the back of her neck, his lips warm, his breath hot. The tingle went down to her toes.

  Then the blindfold slid from her eyes and for a moment she was stunned by the stillness and the silence of the dark, dark night.

  And then she realized he was gone.

  She frowned, standing there, not knowing what to do or even where she was exactly. And then she heard what he must have heard already. Female laughter, a man's low voice, a low whirring sound that she couldn't quite place.

  And then a golf cart came careening around a curve in the path.

  Cynthia had to leap to get out of the way. She caught a glimpse of a woman on the passenger side and felt the shock of recognition. It was her mother, but not her mother—a woman of abandon, wild and windblown, laughter-filled. Jerome Carrington, with none of his customary dignity, was at the helm of the speeding golf cart, making loud engine noises. He was apparently pretending he was driving the Indy instead of a nearly silent cart on a deserted pathway.

  In that moment as they whirred by her, Cynthia registered, with shock and disbelief, her mother's look of reckless abandon.

  Was there something about this place then—about La Torchere—some magic in the air that made people something they had not been before? Made them embrace parts of themselves previously disowned?

  She thought of the disintegration of her own control, and suddenly a doubt inserted itself in her. How good a thing was it to lose control?

  Her mother had warned her all her life about these kinds of mistakes, and where they c
ould land a woman. Barefoot and pregnant in the trailer court, an undershirt-clad husband swilling beer and watching football in the next room.

  Jerome and Emma had passed and Cynthia sighed with relief, thinking she had been granted a momentary reprieve. But then she heard her mother's voice.

  "Stop! Jerome, that was Cynthia."

  Before Cynthia could disappear as surely as her mystery man had, the golf cart was backing up. It stopped beside her.

  She was not sure who was regarding who with more surprise.

  "What are you doing?"

  They both asked the question at precisely the same time.

  "Jerome is taking me on a tour of the whole island," her mother said.

  "At high speed, in the dark," Cynthia pointed out, hoping to get the upper hand fast and first. "You nearly ran me down. Why, it was reckless!"

  "I apologize," Jerome said with gallant sheepishness. "Your mother makes me feel young and foolish again."

  Her mother batted her eyelashes coquettishly in his direction before favoring Cynthia with a much different look.

  "Well, we weren't expecting to see anyone out wandering the paths in complete darkness." Her eyes narrowed. "Where are you going?"

  "Just for a swim."

  "But the pool isn't this way."

  "Um, I wasn't exactly going to the pool."

  "You were going to a beach? You were going to swim in the ocean? In the dark? Cynthia, no!"

  Such horror should have been reserved for a more dramatic adventure—bungee-jumping naked before a packed press gallery—but her mother had never been one to reserve horror.

  "Bluebird, why not?" Jerome asked. "It's a gorgeous night. I might have suggested a swim in the sea myself, had I thought of it."

  If he had, Cynthia thought cynically, he would have found himself swimming by himself. Her mother did not swim. She did not like what water did to her carefully coiffed hair, not to mention her makeup.

  "Why not?" Emma said indignantly, rounding on Jerome. "Why not? Swimming alone is dangerous. What if a shark attacked her? And there are all kinds of sharks, most of them not inhabitants of the ocean! Maybe she wouldn't have even made it to the beach. She's a woman alone out here. Dressed like that. My God!"

  "It's not exactly the high-crime zone of East L.A.," Jerome pointed out, and then looked at Cynthia. "Dressed like what?"

  "Get in the cart, Cynthia," her mother said through tight lips, not even deigning to answer Jerome's innocent question.

  But Cynthia knew. Her mother thought her new bathing suit was unsuitable. Trashy, just like her reading material.

  It occurred to Cynthia that only moments ago she had convinced herself of what an independent young woman she was.

  But now she could see that it was a lie. Her whole life felt, sadly, like a lie, as if she had lived it for someone else other than herself. She had never been reckless. She had never been out of control, and she had always considered those good things. Now, she wasn't sure.

  "Get in the cart," her mother said again, her voice taking on a familiar shrill edge.

  Cynthia could see quite a scene unfolding if she didn't do as her mother asked. Her mystery man must still be lurking in the shrubs somewhere, and she didn't want him to witness such a thing.

  And poor Jerome needed to be spared, too, though why she would not want him to have a complete picture of her mother's rather ferocious temper was beyond her.

  But there was more to her complying with her mother's wishes. Tonight, Cynthia had come face to face with another side of herself.

  It frightened her.

  Just as it had frightened her once, a long, long time ago when she had ridden on the back of a speeding motorbike. That boy, too, had had a gift for bringing out her wild side, for bringing her to the edge of her self-control. It had scared the heck out of her then, and it did now, too.

  Jerome cast her a sympathetic look as she got in the back of the cart. The ride to their rooms was done considerably more slowly than the speed Jerome and her mother had been traveling at under their own steam. And much more silently.

  She could tell by the set of her mother's shoulders that she was bristling, barely containing her bad temper for Jerome's sake.

  They dropped Cynthia at her suite.

  "I'll just say good night to Jerome and be right in to talk to you," her mother said, as if Cynthia was a wayward teenager who had been caught with the smell of booze on her breath at the senior high prom.

  Her head held high, Cynthia marched into her room and shut the door.

  She got the impression Jerome was none too happy with her mother. Their voices carried through her open windows, her mother's becoming more and more shrill while his became lower and calmer.

  Moments later the knock came on the adjoining door. Emma didn't even wait for Cynthia to answer it. She let herself in and stood there, her arms folded, her foot tapping, her gaze stripping Cynthia bare.

  "Tell me what on earth is going on." It was an order, not a request.

  Cynthia felt her chin tilt up stubbornly. "I told you. I was going swimming."

  "You do not go swimming alone at night! Good grief. As if swimming alone isn't an obvious enough hazard, what if a man with bad intentions saw you in that getup!"

  "Getup?" Cynthia asked icily.

  "That is not the type of suit a well-bred young woman parades around in. I am shocked at you." She sighed and shook her finger at Cynthia's mutinous expression. "Sometimes blood shows, I'm afraid."

  "What does that mean?" Cynthia asked, slowly, carefully, furiously.

  "It means sometimes I see your father in you, and it frightens me."

  Cynthia felt as though she had been slapped, and she drew herself to her full height, several inches taller than her diminutive mother. "You know, mother, you missed everything that that was best about that man. You missed his spontaneity and his boldness and his love of adventure. I hope I have kept some of those qualities alive. I hope I have. I hope it isn't too late."

  "You've met a man," her mother deduced after a scorching silence. "I knew it when I saw you this morning with that glazed look on your face. And I bet he's an absolute scoundrel, isn't he? Why else would you be too ashamed of him to introduce me?"

  "Mother," Cynthia said, measuring every word, "I work for you, which I am just beginning to realize may be a mistake. Did you know I once dreamed of being an artist?"

  "An artist? Oh, starving to death in a garret is such charming fun!"

  Cynthia could see there was no point in arguing, so she said very carefully, "I am twenty-six years old, and if I want to swim at night—in the buff—"

  "In the buff?" her mother squeaked with horror.

  "I am going to. And if I want to see a man, I am not going to ask your permission, I am going to have my own life, and if you can't accept that, then—"

  "Then what?" her mother whispered, and tears pooled in the blueness of her eyes.

  Cynthia remembered her promise. She'd look after her. She'd make her happy.

  But at what price? The price of her own happiness?

  "Cynthia," her mother said, her tone entirely changed, that of a small girl, "don't be mad. I'm your mother. I just want what's best for you."

  "I need to be alone," Cynthia said, but more gently. "Could you just leave me alone?"

  Her mother touched her temple and winced.

  I feel a migraine coming on, Cynthia thought silently.

  "I feel a migraine coming on," her mother said.

  "How convenient for you," Cynthia said before she could stop herself.

  "That's exactly the kind of thing your father used to say to me." Her mother gave a cry of pure pain, before she turned and ran out the door.

  Cynthia felt a deep exhaustion settle over her. She should go and soothe her mother, but she was sure part of the cause of her exhaustion was all the shoulds that ruled her life, not to mention having allowed herself to be manipulated for so long.

  On the other hand, she could g
o back out and try to find her mystery man, but she no longer felt like it.

  Her mother was probably right. She was dancing with danger. She was making foolish, irresponsible decisions. Emotion was ruling her rather than reason.

  Control was a good thing, and how could she have rein control tonight? She had barely maintained her control when he had kissed her shoulder. And then her lips. What kind of danger would the rest have brought? Swimming, talking, eating together?

  She took off her bathing suit, reluctantly. She stared at the red negligee but her defiance was all used up for one night. She didn't even feel like the same woman who had purchased it. Instead, she shoved the bathing suit and negligee in a bag and put them under the bed. She donned the old bunny pajamas. Hot Desert Kisses was on the night table.

  She crawled into bed and read one paragraph. Jasmine and her sheik were kissing with an unbridled passion that made Cynthia feel hollow. She threw the book at the wall, laid her head on her pillow and wept.

  Not so much because of the argument with her mother, either, but because of the opportunity missed.

  Where had he planned to take her tonight? He had said they were going to swim together in darkness.

  The picture was so compelling and so erotic that she cried harder for having missed it.

  What if he thought she'd chosen her mother over him, and what if he never came back?

  It occurred to her she was pining for a complete stranger. She didn't even know his name.

  Rick waited until they had gone and the night once again belonged to him. He followed the cart until he saw it stop and saw which unit Cynthia went into. He left when her mother's shrill voice began to pierce the blessed quiet of the night. He crossed to the secluded beach he had chosen for his "tryst" with Cynthia.

  He kicked sand over the candles that burned around the blanket and the midnight lunch he'd had delivered by a very willing Merry. He was hardly able to appreciate the romantic setting she had created for them. He rolled up the blanket, stuffed it on top of the basket, and stripped off all his clothes.