by Diana Palmer
It was like a dark, sweet convulsion, she thought as fulfillment washed over her like a throbbing, suffocating tidal wave of pleasure. She was blind, deaf, dumb, to everything except the release of tension. Her body was in a painful arch, her eyes on his blurred face as she gave herself to the darkness….
There were tender, breathlessly soft kisses on her closed eyelids, her panting mouth. She felt hard lips moving over every part of her while she lay throbbing, throbbing, throbbing from the hot, drugged pleasure he’d given her.
He chuckled. “You make me feel like the best lover who ever lived,” he whispered.
“You are.”
He nibbled her ear. “No. You just react to me as if I were. It isn’t the physical bond at all, Maggie, it’s the emotion that produces the pleasure.”
“You mean, because I love you,” she whispered back.
There was a faint hesitation in the lips worshiping her relaxed body. “I mean, because I love you, as well.”
She was going crazy. She knew it. Her hands, that had been gripping his buttocks so tightly, relaxed.
“Didn’t you know, honey?” he asked, lifting his head to look down into her wide, sated eyes. He wasn’t smiling.
Her fingers lifted to his beloved face above her. She could still feel him, deep in her body, throbbing, as she was throbbing.
He brushed his mouth lightly over hers. “How many times have I had you,” he whispered, “and never bothered with a single precaution?”
“It would be hard for me to get pregnant,” she rationalized.
“It’s going to be easier than you ever dreamed,” he said drowsily. “I love babies.”
She was confused. Perhaps the convulsive pleasure had popped a major artery. She said so.
He chuckled again, moving so that the pleasure returned in teasing little spasms. “Probably we both did, but making babies is exciting, and I can’t stop trying.”
Her hands slid up to frame his face. “It’s the excitement of it,” she tried to explain, worried. “It’s new, and…”
He nibbled her upper lip. “It’s new and exciting, and that’s why I keep neglecting protection, hmm?”
“Isn’t it?”
“New and exciting? Yes.” He lifted up from her and looked down their bodies to where they were still tightly joined. “I’m thirty-four,” he said huskily. “You’re twenty-six.” His eyes went back to meet hers. “We’re used to each other in all the ways that matter, and now we find an explosive passion that shows no signs of weakening. In fact, if what just happened is any indication,” he added, moving again, sensuously, and watching her moan, “we’re becoming quite adept at giving each other pleasure.”
He started to lift away and she protested, but he sat back from her, kneeling over her prone body, studying every inch of her as if he’d never seen a woman nude before. Probably it should have embarrassed her. It didn’t. She liked his eyes on her.
“When we get back to Houston, the minute we get back,” he added to emphasize it, “we’re having blood tests and getting a marriage license.”
That was part of the fantasy. She smiled. She was dreaming, of course. She knew it, now. Cord Romero would never marry again. Hadn’t he said so a million times?
“Why are you smiling?” he asked warily.
“I’m dreaming,” she said simply.
He moved, an arrogant shift of his knees to push her long legs apart. He was still capable and growing more so by the second. He caught her upper thighs and drew her up to him, positioning her.
“Cord…” she whispered worriedly.
“You can take me,” he whispered back. He began to ease inside her in tiny, quick little thrusts of his hips that brought unexpectedly intense spasms of pleasure.
“It’s…too…soon,” she choked.
He was watching her body absorb him with eyes that contained equal measures of wonder and excitement. “I’ve never…done it like this,” he groaned. His hands tightened on her thighs and his eyes began to dilate. “I’ve never watched…so intimately…”
“What do you see?” she whispered breathlessly.
“I see you…having me,” he bit off, flinching as the pleasure began to throb. “I see you opening…for me!”
She looked down and he lifted her away, letting her see. It was erotic. It was blatant. It was…!
She was moaning, twisting, throbbing. Her eyes were open, but she saw nothing. The pleasure, so intense before, was unbearable now. She caught the wet towels in both hands and gripped them until her knuckles turned white while he invaded her with slow, hard, merciless thrusts that lifted her hips rhythmically at first and then violently quick. Her last sane thought was that they were going to hurt each other. A second later, she became a meteor, flying headlong through space in a throbbing, fiercely hot tunnel of pleasure.
Cord felt her release in the seconds before he was twisted and convulsed by his own. He fell on her, his body heavy and hot and wet with sweat as they lay shivering together on the towels.
She trembled, gasping, as the exhaustion finally worked its way within her and left her too tired to move or speak. Her heartbeat was shaking both of them.
He pulled away before she could protest, if she’d had the breath. She felt him get to his feet and lift her, carrying her to the bed. Her last memory was of the cool sheets above and beneath her, and the darkness all around.
The next morning, she was more sore than ever. She woke moaning and trying to find a comfortable position, which there wasn’t. She got up and dressed, wincing at even the most delicate touch of intimate things against her.
She was brushing her long hair when Cord opened the door and came in. He was wearing slacks and a knit shirt, his dark, slightly wavy hair combed, immaculate. He moved behind the vanity stool, took the brush from her hands, and began to work on her hair.
“You’re uncomfortable this morning,” he said without preamble. “I’m sorry. I know better, but once I touch you, I can’t seem to stop.”
She met his eyes in the mirror, surprised by the apology. “I couldn’t stop, either,” she reminded him, and she smiled.
He bent to kiss her hair tenderly before he renewed his efforts with the brush. “Brought you something.” He took a small vial out of his pocket and pressed it into her hand.
“What is it?” she asked.
He looked vaguely uncomfortable. “It’s for the discomfort,” he murmured.
She was horrified. Had he asked one of the women in the household…?
He smiled helplessly at her expression. “I had to use some myself,” he said sheepishly.
Her eyebrows lifted. This was really interesting. Men got sore, too?
He chuckled. “Yes,” he said, as if he knew what she was thinking. “Men do, too.”
“Wow.”
“Now you know,” he said complacently. He finished with the brush and put it on the table. “But just for the record, if last night was my last few hours on earth, I wouldn’t have one single regret.”
“Neither would I.” She drew his hand to her mouth and kissed the callused palm. “I love you with all my heart.”
“As I love you,” he bit off. He bent, tugging her mouth up so that he could kiss it with fierce possession.
A few seconds later, he forced himself to lift his head. His eyes were turbulent, his heartbeat violent. “The more I have you, the more I want you, Maggie,” he said huskily. “That isn’t going to stop. That’s why we have to get married. I’m old-fashioned about kids. Nobody’s calling mine bastards.”
Her fingers touched his hard mouth. It was contagious. She was beginning to believe she could have his child. Her eyes were wide and soft with wonder, with anticipation. It was all part of the fantasy. It wasn’t real. But she was insulated, cocooned, right now. She could believe. She could love. She could accept love and the phantom image of pleasure. She could dream.
“You can have anything you want,” he whispered hoarsely, seeing acceptance and joy in her fac
e and misreading the day-dreamy look. “I’ll stay home and raise cattle.”
And he’d hate it, and her, and the baby, she thought. But it was a dream, and they could share it for now. The risk of someone discovering her past was too formidable to let her look very far ahead, especially with Cord. He was going to be so disgusted if he ever found out. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to keep him in the dark, in that one way. She was certain she couldn’t get pregnant, after what the doctors had said, and she’d been honest with him. He didn’t believe it, but it wouldn’t make any difference. She’d grow old alone, but she would have these exquisite, delicious memories of Cord making love to her. Along with the excitement and danger of the present, there was the physical delight of it. She was grateful for every second that he looked at her with desire.
“You’re not talking to me,” he mused.
“Does it matter?” she asked, letting her eyes trace every inch of him that was visible in her long vanity mirror. “I just want to look at you. You’re perfect, Cord. All of you.”
He sighed. Something was bothering her, and she didn’t want to tell him. He knew it was more than her miscarriage. He spared a mental curse for her ex-husband who’d cost them their child, and for his own maltreatment of her that had kept her from telling him she was pregnant. He cursed the past for the misunderstandings, the torment. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He wanted a family and a home and her in it. But she was only giving lip service to his suggestions. Why? What else was she hiding?
He decided that he was going to have to ignore her right to privacy and dig further into her past. She was never going to tell him. He would have to find it out himself.
But he didn’t let on. He smiled. “I like looking at you, too, sweetheart,” he said softly. “With or without clothes.”
She smiled back. And for a few precious seconds, they were almost one person.
The plane trip to Amsterdam didn’t take long at all. After a pleasant snack and desultory conversation with Cord about their delightful visit with Jorge, they were landing at Schiphol Airport.
It was big and sprawling and most of the signs were in Dutch and English. A few were in Polish, and she remarked on it.
“They have a large immigrant Polish population,” he told her. “But you’ll find signs in Japanese, as well. They get tourists from all over.”
“Do I have to drive again?” she moaned.
“They drive on the same side of the road we do,” he chuckled. “Just like in Spain and Gibraltar and Morocco. But, no, you don’t have to drive. We’ll get a cab to our hotel.”
“Where are we staying?”
“Where the action is,” he teased. “Right on the Dam Square. The palace is across the street, a wax museum is next door, there’s a sidewalk café, exclusive clothing shop windows to explore, the war memorial, and just down the street a ways, the canals.”
“We can see the canals?” she exclaimed.
“We can go on them. There are boat tours. I won’t be able to see anything,” he teased, alluding to his dark glasses. “But you will. You can be my eyes.”
They both knew it was a joke, but they didn’t know if anyone was watching or listening who had ties to Gruber, even in the airport. Stealth was the word of the day.
She took his hand in hers. “I’ll be your eyes, your ears, anything you want me to be,” she whispered huskily. “Just so you know,” she added softly, “the past few days were worth everything that’s happened to me in my life. Everything!”
That sounded final. He frowned. What was she trying to say to him?
“We should go,” she said, looking around. “How do we get out of the airport?”
“Through passport control and customs, just like Spain,” he told her. “Follow the signs.”
“They’re in Dutch!” she wailed.
“They’re in English, too. Just keep looking.”
They tugged their carry-on luggage on wheels along behind them, with Maggie leading Cord by the hand as they made their way first to a money-changing booth, and then through passport control and then to the customs desk, where they were passed through. They walked out into bright sunshine and hailed a cab. The cabs, like those Maggie had seen in other countries, were Mercedes-Benzs. She remarked on it.
“They’re dependable,” he chuckled. “That’s why so many people have them.” He paused to give the name of the hotel to the driver. The man tried to ask a question in English. Cord, surprising Maggie, switched immediately to Dutch. He and the man laughed together and exchanged pleasantries.
“I told you I spoke Dutch,” he said after they were underway, grinning at Maggie’s surprise.
“It sounds fascinating,” she replied.
“It’s an interesting language. And the Dutch are fascinating people, as you’ll discover when you’ve been here a couple of days. They’re intelligent, industrious, and they have one of the most efficient land-claiming operations on earth. You did know,” he added, “about the system of dykes that holds back the ocean?”
“I read National Geographic,” she pointed out. “Yes, indeed, I know how the dykes work and how desperately the Dutch people have to fight to keep their country above water. It’s awe-inspiring.”
He nodded. He noticed the driver’s eyebrows raised and repeated what he and Maggie were saying in Dutch. The driver grinned at Maggie and increased his speed.
It took several minutes to get through the city of narrow streets and trolley cars and bicyclers. There were bicycle lanes next to the trolley tracks. The streets were so filled with natives and tourists that it was a wonder to Maggie that anybody could move at all.
“It’s so crowded!” she exclaimed. “Is it because of the summer tourist season?” she asked as they approached a huge hotel and pulled up to the door under an awning, where a uniformed man waited to greet them.
“It’s always crowded,” he assured her, reaching into his pocket for the fare in Dutch guilders.
“Is this it?” she asked as the doorman helped her from the cab. She wasn’t terribly impressed with the outside, and nearby, where a statue sat in the cobblestoned square, dozens of young people lounged around looking bored. Some had guitars with cups sitting nearby, obviously for tips.
“This is it. Wait until you see inside,” he added with a grin.
She took his arm and led him to the desk. The whole of the inside was carpeted. The desk was long and busy. Beautifully upholstered furniture was spread around the lobby. There was a photograph of the royal family including Queen Beatrice on a nearby wall, a reminder that the Netherlands had a monarchy.
Past the chairs was a dining room, and elaborate desserts and tea in delicate china cups were being placed on linen-covered tablecloths.
“Isn’t it too early for supper?” Maggie asked. “People are eating…”
“That is high tea, Madam Romero,” the clerk told her with a smile, lifting his eyebrows at her look of surprise. “When you are taken to your room, you might like to come back down and experience it, if you haven’t before. Also, we have an exquisite restaurant with a world-class chef, and our morning room for breakfast is a botanist’s dream.”
“Yes, it is,” Cord replied, pushing the register to one side. “You need to sign us in, Mrs. Romero,” he added pointedly.
She could tell that his eyes were smiling behind those dark glasses. She didn’t have to ask if they were sharing a room, either.
14
In fact, they were sharing a suite. It had a sitting area, with a fax machine and phone, a safe and a small bar with a refrigerator, and a separate bedroom with a double bed. The bathroom didn’t have a whirlpool bath, but Maggie wasn’t sorry. Her memories of those were delightful, but temporarily uncomfortable.
Cord tipped the bellboy, and waited to speak until he’d explained where everything was and how it worked to Maggie and closed the door behind him.
Cord put his finger to his chiseled mouth and took out the elect
ronic device, which was now familiar to Maggie. He swept all the rooms twice before he was satisfied that there were no bugs in the room. But afterward, he glanced across the way at the building behind the hotel, and when he closed the blinds, he put another device on the table and activated it.
“In case anyone’s listening, all they’ll hear is static,” he told Maggie.
“But there aren’t any bugs, are there?” she asked, confused.
“A man in the building across from us could point a microphone this way and even through glass and concrete, he could hear us whisper,” he confided. “He can even see us, through the walls—or, rather, our body heat—with an infrared device that’s readily available on the market.”
She shook her head. “I never heard of such things.”
“You will, if you ever go to work for Lassiter.” He took her by the shoulders and bent to kiss her forehead gently. “I’ve got some work to do on the laptop, but we can go down and sample high tea first, if you’d like to?”
“I would,” she confessed. “I’ve read about it for years, and I don’t know what it is, really.”
“Let’s go find out, then!”
It was delightful. There were cucumber sandwiches, small pastries, any sort of tea you liked, or coffee with real cream, and even fruit and vegetable medleys with dipping sauce. There were also real linen napkins.
“It’s so elegant,” Maggie exclaimed, fascinated by the people around her as well as the little meal.
He smiled through his dark glasses. “So are you,” he said softly. “Elegant, strong, fearless and passionate,” he added huskily.
“Adjectives that would also apply to you,” she replied.
He reached across for her hand and held it close. “We make an interesting couple.”
“Don’t we, though?” She smiled and reached for her teacup.
There were all sorts of shops on the same level as the lobby, with expensive designer goods as well as souvenirs. Maggie bought watercolors of the canals, along with wooden-shoe key chains and blue delft china pieces that doubled as salt-and-pepper shakers.
