Diamond Girl

by Diana Palmer

  Her body relaxed all at once. She searched his face. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, and all the anger and fear and pain went out of her with the words. “I’m so very sorry, Regan.”

  His face contorted. “I loved her,” he breathed roughly, the words torn from him. “Three years, three long, lonely years.”

  His body relaxed, too, although he didn’t move. He looked down at her steadily, curiously. “I hurt you,” he murmured, as if he was only just realizing it.

  Her tongue touched the place his teeth had damaged. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I deserved that, and you know it. I never dreamed I could hurt anyone deliberately....”

  His eyes dropped to the swollen lip. “We’re even, then,” he said quietly. “Because I’ve never been that rough with a woman in my life.”

  Her breath was still coming far too quickly, and she was becoming slowly aware of new sensations in her slender body. Her breasts were tautening, swelling, and the dress had slid away until one of them was all but bare to the sudden interest in his dark eyes.

  She felt her body tremble suddenly, knowing that he could feel it, too, couldn’t help but feel it. His eyes slid back up to search hers before they fell to her soft, trembling mouth.

  His head bent again, wordlessly, and his mouth brushed softly against hers. His tongue drew a slow pattern over her swollen lower lip, healing, tantalizing, his breath smoky and faintly unsteady.

  He stretched her, his hands tugging gently at hers to draw her body to its full length even as he covered it fully with his own. She felt his hips pressing firmly over hers, and the same thing that had happened to him while they danced was happening again.

  She stiffened under him, and his lips poised just above hers.

  “No, don’t do that,” he said softly, his voice almost unrecognizable, because it was tender. “I won’t hurt you.” His hands, where they held hers, became slowly caressing. His mouth brushed down over hers in a tingling parody of a kiss. “Lie still,” he breathed against her lips. “Despite what you’ve heard about men, most of us aren’t that dangerous when we’re hungry.”

  The very calmness of his tone eased the tension out of her. She didn’t understand why she wasn’t fighting, or demanding to be let loose. The feel of his body was intoxicating, all warm muscle and strength. He was bigger than she’d realized, her arms would barely have reached around that broad chest. She shifted involuntarily, and he eased his hips to one side, so that only his chest was pinning her to the soft cushions.

  Her eyes looked straight up into his, curious and searching. He returned the frank stare, without blinking. “You’re very soft,” he breathed.

  Her lips parted. “You’re...enormous,” she managed. She studied the broad, quiet face poised over her own, fascinated by its hard lines. It was as if she’d never really looked at him.

  “What are you staring at so hard?” he murmured.

  “Your nose,” she confessed. “It’s been broken.”

  “Twice,” he agreed, and smiled faintly. “I served in ’Nam, in the Marines.”

  She wanted to touch that formidable nose, his mouth. “Would you let go of my hands?” she asked.

  He released them, to slide his own hands under her back, where the dress left it bare. Her fingers moved up to his face, hesitating.

  “It’s all right,” he said softly. “I don’t mind being touched.”

  Her fingers ran over his nose, where the break had been, and over his cheeks. He was clean-shaven, but there was already a trace of stubble. His chin was square and his heavy brows jutted over his deep-set eyes. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes, and he had traces of silver tangling in the hair at his temples.

  He bent, nuzzling her nose with his, so close now that her eyes could hardly see him. “Your eyes have gold flecks in them,” he murmured.

  “Yours don’t,” she whispered back, framing his face with her hands to hold it away. “They’re very nearly black.”

  “My French ancestry,” he said. His eyes narrowed. “Still afraid of me, Kenna?”

  Her lips parted. “No,” she said, and her own reply shocked her. But she wasn’t afraid of him. Not anymore.

  His finger touched her lips and his eyes fell to it. “That’s interesting,” he said, “because I think I’m afraid of you.”

  “Why?” she asked involuntarily.

  “Virgins make me nervous,” he murmured, with a wicked smile. “I suppose you’d faint if I eased that witchy gown down around your waist and looked at you, wouldn’t you?”

  She felt her cheeks catch fire. “Yes, I probably would,” she admitted.

  He frowned slightly. “You’re damned inexperienced, do you know that?”

  “Yes,” she said, grimacing. “Well, the way I look... looked...who’d want to teach me anything?” she added bitterly.

  “The way you look right now, who wouldn’t?” he mused. He propped himself over her so that his breath was warm on her lips. “You need a little educating, Miss Dean,” he breathed, “for your own sake. It takes experience to make a woman seductive.”

  She swallowed, once again shockingly aware of the message his body was sending out. “That depends on what kind of education you have in mind.”

  He smiled wickedly as his mouth brushed over her eyelids, closing them. “Nothing traumatic, little nun,” he murmured. “Just some remedial lovemaking.”

  Before she could find an answer to that blatant observation, his mouth was on hers. She stiffened for an instant at the intimacy. It wasn’t unpleasant now; he wasn’t trying to hurt. His lips were patient and very gentle. She barely felt them. But as the pressure began to deepen and the pleasant brushing turned to hunger, her eyes opened and looked up. His own eyes were closed, his brows drawn together in something like pain. His lashes were thick as brushes, and dark as night where they lay on his cheek. She closed her own eyes again, strangely touched.

  One arm slid under her, and she felt his fingers just at the outer edge of her breast, lightly brushing. Not intimate, but oddly arousing, causing sensations she’d never felt.

  His mouth lifted for an instant. “How sore is that lip?” he asked in a deep whisper.

  Her eyes lazily came open. “What?” she murmured, drunk on pleasure.

  He laughed softly. “Never mind.” He bent again, lifting a hand to catch her jaw and open her mouth gently. “Now leave it like this,” he breathed as his own mouth opened and fitted itself to hers exactly.

  She caught her breath at the new intimacy. She felt his tongue exploring her inner lip, darting into her mouth, and she gasped at the sensual feel of it. Her fingers bit into his arms and trembled.

  He raised his head, scowling. “You are a little nun, aren’t you?” he asked under his breath. “It’s called a French kiss,” he told her, searching her wide eyes. “Men like it.”

  Her eyes went to her own fingers, digging into his hard, muscled arms. “I...I think I like it, too,” she admitted, meeting his eyes again. “No one ever kissed me like that, Regan.”

  “I’m beginning to realize that no one ever did much of anything to you,” he replied. His eyes searched hers quietly. “Have you been lonely for a long time, Cinderella?” he asked suddenly.

  The question startled her, because it was so close to the truth, and tears stung her eyes.

  “Don’t,” he said softly, and bent to brush the tears away with his mouth. “Don’t. I know what loneliness is. I know how it feels.”

  Yes, he knew, probably better than she ever would, and she ached to take that horrible pain out of his eyes. Her fingers moved up to smooth away the hair at his temples.

  He kissed her face tenderly, touching every soft inch of it. “The nights are the worst, aren’t they?” he breathed. “Going to a movie and watching couples hold hands, seeing families gro
uped together in restaurants—oh, yes, I know what it’s like.”

  “There’s a difference,” she murmured, feeling so safe with him, now, so strangely in tune with him. “Men can ask women out.”

  He lifted his free hand to touch her face. “And you can’t?” He smiled gently at the expression on her delicate features. “It’s allowed these days.”

  She shifted restlessly. “And men get the wrong idea, don’t they? Or rather, the right idea, because most girls don’t care.”

  “That—” he sighed “—is a fact. I’m pretty old-fashioned myself, Cinders. I don’t like being chased.”

  “Are you...chased?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I’m rich, haven’t you noticed?”

  She shook her head and smiled. “I was too busy noticing your big feet and your broken nose...oh, no fair!” she gasped when he dug her in the ribs.

  He chuckled down at her. “Salaaming at my door...I was in a rotten mood that morning, I felt like sitting on you.”

  She smiled back. “I’m glad you didn’t. My hospitalization policy doesn’t cover damage done by irate bosses.”

  “What a sharp little tongue.” He moved down, and something new and exciting glittered in his dark eyes as they studied her mouth. “Do you know what to do with it now?” he asked.

  Even as he spoke, he touched his mouth to hers, and smiled as it opened and her tongue repeated the wild little caress his had taught her.

  His breath came quick and rough, and his free hand moved to her throat. “Again,” he whispered against her lips. “Don’t stop just when you’re getting the hang of it.”

  She lifted her arms around his neck and gave in to him, sharing a kiss that made her toes curl with pure pleasure as her tongue met his and fenced with it. Seconds later, she felt his hand easing down to brush lightly at the soft curve of her breast. The other hand was under her arm, lightly teasing, and between the two of them, she felt her body go taut with something strained and threatening.

  She caught her breath and he lifted his dark head to watch her.

  I should stop you, she told herself as she drowned in those dark eyes and reveled in the tantalizing seduction of his hands as they played around the edges of her breast. But she was curious and blazing with unexpected hungers. Involuntarily her body arched and twisted to invite his hands inside the thin dress.

  “Your eyes are the shade of budding leaves,” he whispered, looking into them, “in a spring mist. I could get lost in them. That’s it, honey, lift up for me.”

  “Please,” she whispered, shaken.

  “Not yet,” he replied, his voice, his eyes tender, his hands tormenting, until what she felt bordered on anguish. “Not until you want it more than breath.”

  “Do you want me...to beg?” she moaned.

  “No,” he whispered. “I want you to need it. I want you to need me. I want to make it the sweetest pleasure you’ve ever known.”

  She arched again, dragging at breath, staring straight into his dark eyes the whole time while her body caught fire and burned. “What are you doing to me?” she moaned helplessly.

  “Taking possession,” he breathed, and even as he spoke, his hand slowly moved, moving inside the bodice to cup her, to press against taut, swelling flesh.

  It was so sweet that she cried out, tears swimming in her eyes, brimming, as she bit her lip at the tiny, delicious consummation and clung to him, burying her face against his shoulder.

  “You see?” he whispered, cradling her small breast gently. “You can’t rush it. It has to be slow to be good.”

  She trembled in his embrace, feeling him turn so that she was lying beside him, against him, without the enforced intimacy of his body.

  Without knowing why, she began to cry. His arms swallowed her, meeting behind her back, and he held her, rocking her softly, his cheek on her dark hair.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, shaken, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

  His hand smoothed her hair, gentling her. “I’m the one who should be apologizing,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Kenna.”

  “I know that,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I don’t know why I said those horrible things to you....”

  “Probably for the same reason I’ve been saying them to you, but this isn’t the time or the place to hash it out.” He sighed and stretched lazily. “Feel better?”

  “That’s a leading question,” she replied, sitting up. She glanced down at him and blushed.

  He chuckled at the expression on her face. “What a revealing color. Scarlet, isn’t it?”

  She made a harsh sound and scrambled over his long legs to get to her feet. She grabbed up the brandy snifter and drained it, hardly aware of the taste.

  “Kenna...” he began.

  She put the snifter down. “Uh, Denny and Margo should be here soon, shouldn’t they?” she asked, suddenly nervous and uncertain.

  He got up, too, and moved in front of her to take her gently but firmly by the shoulders. He tilted her face up to his searching eyes.

  “I’ll never hurt you again,” he said quietly. “That’s a promise. Don’t start getting self-conscious with me because I lost my head for a minute.”

  “I’m self-conscious because I lost mine,” she confessed, avoiding his gaze.

  “That should have happened to you years ago,” he said quietly. “Some very lucky man should have shown you what it was all about.”

  Her eyes fell to his chest. “No one ever wanted to,” she admitted miserably. She glanced up at him, aching. “Was it pity tonight?”

  “My God, no!” he burst out. His hands tightened on her arms. “If you want the truth, I suppose I wanted to make amends for hurting you. But it wasn’t out of pity, or misplaced compassion.”

  Her eyes searched his. “Were you pretending that I was her?” she asked, nodding toward the small framed photo.

  He scowled darkly. “I don’t play that kind of game,” he replied coldly. “I loved my wife, but I didn’t climb in the grave with her, and I don’t need substitutes. Does that answer your question?” He released her all at once and moved away to light a cigarette.

  She stared at his broad back, remembering how the warm muscles had felt against her hands. It mattered, that he hadn’t pretended she was Jessica while he was kissing her. She didn’t understand why, but it mattered very much.

  “I’m sorry,” she said helplessly. “I seem to make a habit of sticking my foot in my mouth lately.”

  He turned, his eyes holding hers. “Don’t you know why we strike sparks off each other? Aren’t you even mature enough to understand that?”

  Her tongue touched the small bruise on her lower lip, and he followed the movement with his eyes. “Yes,” she admitted, feeling raw. “I understand why.”

  He took a long drag on the cigarette, but he didn’t look away. “In that case, you’ll also understand if I tell you that we’re going to have to tone it down and start getting along with each other. Denny’s the object of the chase, not me.”

  She blushed red. “I hadn’t forgotten,” she replied with equal coldness.

  His eyes went up and down her body, lingering on her bodice, and she knew that he was remembering, as she was, the feel of skin against skin.

  “It should have been Denny, shouldn’t it?” he asked bitterly. He laughed mirthlessly as he lifted the cigarette to his chiseled mouth. “Well, there’ll be other firsts for him.” His head jerked as the sound of the doorbell suddenly exploded into the strained silence. “Just in time.”

  He went to open the door, leaving Kenna to stare blankly after him.

  It wasn’t until Denny and Margo walked in the door that Kenna realized how she must look. Denny was close enough that she could make out his expression, and there was open cu
riosity in it as he added her ruffled hair and swollen lips to Regan’s equally ruffled hair and lipstick-smeared mouth.

  “Had you forgotten you invited us?” Denny asked Regan, and there was a note in his voice that Kenna had never heard him use with the older man.

  “Not at all,” Regan said smoothly. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Bourbon, straight, for me,” Denny said coolly. “Margo, what would you like?”

  “I prefer cognac, if you have it,” the other woman replied, studying Denny with eyes that suddenly went from affectionate to angry.

  “Kenna?” Regan asked, barely glancing her way as he went to the bar.

  “Another brandy, please,” she murmured, handing him her snifter.

  “Well, how did you like the ball, Kenna?” Denny asked, moving close to study her small, wounded face.

  “It was very nice,” she managed.

  “I also enjoyed it,” Margo said, moving to Denny’s side to grasp his arm possessively. She hugged him close, her eyes warning Kenna off.

  “What happened to your lip?” Denny asked curtly, glancing toward Regan.

  “None of your damned business,” Regan said in a dangerously soft tone as he handed the drinks around.

  Denny’s eyes narrowed as he grasped the glass in one hand. “That could change very easily,” he replied.

  Regan lifted his own glass in a mock toast. “Nolo contendere, counselor,” he said.

  Kenna watched Denny’s face flush angrily as he recognized the legal phrase which meant no contest.

  Denny finished his drink and Margo sipped at hers, while Regan sidetracked his stepbrother into a discussion of a case they were working on. But the tension was still there fifteen minutes later, when Denny suddenly announced that he and Margo had to leave.

  Margo had said hardly two words to Kenna, her whole posture defensive and jealous. Kenna disliked her possessive attitude, but wasn’t as upset by it as she would have expected. And that was puzzling, too. She felt confused.

  Kenna escaped to the powder room to get away from the emotional undercurrents, and when she came back, Denny and Margo were gone.