Now that she’d aroused his curiosity about the translation, though, she’d have to pacify him in some way. Inspiration struck. She would type up an edited version of the translation as soon as possible. In the meantime, she’d just have to keep him distracted.
Speaking of which…
She frowned at the door. It was awfully quiet out there. Sensing an impending siege, she looked around for a place to hide the translation. She considered playing it safe and ripping it into shreds, but the professor had scrawled a fairly long personal note at the bottom which Tess hadn’t read beyond the first line.
The sound of a key grating in the lock hurried her. Opening one of her dresser drawers, she shoved the note beneath clothing, shut the drawer and whirled around just as the door swung open.
Cole strode in and tossed a key onto a dresser. His gaze bore into hers as he stalked closer, every line of his powerful body a threat. “One last chance, Tess,” he warned in the lowest, meanest drawl she’d ever heard—worthy of any movie villain. “I’m going to let you give me that little square of paper you were hiding. And if you fail to make the best of this final opportunity—” Mischief and mayhem glinted in his gaze as it inched down her body with clear sexual intent “—you lose your right to object to a total body search.”
Her blood warmed and pumped in a vitally sensual rhythm.
He pressed closer, teasing her with his salty, musky male scent. “Where’s the translation, Tess?”
She lifted an obstinate brow. “What translation?”
Surprise flickered in his dark green gaze, as if he hadn’t expected such a blatant challenge. And then he lunged, like a football player, catching her low around the hips. She shrieked as her feet left the floor. Hoisting her over his shoulder, he gripped the backs of her thighs and carried her across the room.
With her rump in the air, her head hanging down against his back and her blood rushing to her face, she locked one arm around his lean torso and slid her hand down his back, beneath the waistband of his khakis, to the taut, hot musculature beneath his briefs … and pinched him. Lightly. Repeatedly. Everywhere she could reach.
He arched and cursed at the shock of the attack, and with a few long strides, slung her onto the bed, where he fell across her and wrestled her into a hold quite ruthlessly. “You’re just making it harder on yourself,” he warned with uneven breaths, trapping her arms at her sides, wedging a knee between her legs.
She nudged her thigh against his hot, pulsating arousal, which strained behind his zipper. “Ohhh…” she breathed in a husky, appreciative murmur from deep in her throat “…do you think so?”
His gaze sharp and hot and only mildly amused, delved deep into hers. “Oh, yeah, I think so.” And as he spoke, he ran his hand over her breasts until heat coursed in wicked currents throughout her. “No sense putting up a fight. You’ve waived your right to object. Now I’ve got to conduct a thorough search,” he whispered, “to find all your secret places.”
She arched her back, thrusting her breasts into prominence, wanting to lure his caressing hand beneath her blouse. “Should I tell you if you’re getting warm?” His palm scraped across a hardened nipple and she sucked in a breath. Faintly, then, “Or … hot?”
His hand left her breasts, coursed down to her tight jeans, around her hips and each mound of her bottom, leaving nowhere untouched. “There’s no ‘if’ about it.”
And though his golden-dark face loomed close above hers, he didn’t kiss her. He just watched her eyes with a smoldering gaze as his questing hand ignited fires in her blood. Her body purled beneath his touch. He stroked her thighs, then up, up, along the inner seam of her jeans … to the valley between her legs. His fingertips raked. His knuckles pressed. The flat of his hand set a rhythm. Slower, harder…
She groaned, clutched at him, closed her eyes. “W-will this be…” she could barely force the whisper from her throat “…a strip search?”
“If necessary.”
Oh, it was.
*
Cole woke up in bed alone. And late. Past nine. On Sunday morning, yet. The one day that neither he nor Tess would be hurrying off to work, and he could keep her to himself.
At the sound of water running and the sight of the closed bathroom door, he relaxed against the pillows. She hadn’t gone anywhere. Anticipation pulsed through him. They had hours before Leo would arrive. And hours after Leo left. Life was good. Very good.
He frowned at that reflection. Maybe too good.
As he thought back to the incredible night he’d just spent, an inkling of doubt wormed its way into his contentment. Something had come over Tess. What, he wasn’t sure. He’d recognized the difference in her the moment she’d lifted that arrogant auburn brow and murmured, “What translation?” She’d then astonished him for the rest of the night with rowdy, teasing, provocative lovemaking.
She’d been open and free. Game for everything. Insatiable. Profoundly beautiful. So damn exciting. His mind still buzzed with visual images of her. His body still hummed from the erotic play of her hands and mouth, and the explosive force of his climaxes. And though there wasn’t much about sex that he hadn’t experienced many times over the course of his life, she’d taken him places he’d never been. He still didn’t understand how. They hadn’t done anything kinky, or even very original. But it had all felt new.
Apprehension curled through him. What had caused the change in her? The first time they’d made love, she’d been reluctant. Cautious. Reserved. Until, of course, he’d pushed her beyond rational thought. The next day, her caution had returned. “The seed’s already been planted.” But last night, she’d taunted him into lovemaking and held nothing back, meeting him with passion and pleasure equal to his own.
She’d always turned him on, even when she’d been at her most reluctant, with her inner fire blazing beyond her control. But now…
Her laughter, her unpredictability, her sheer sensuality, turned lovemaking into an adventure. The tenderness in her touches, the longing in her gaze even after they’d climaxed, turned it into something mystical. And holding her as she slept had been a pleasure too keen for words.
His apprehension grew. What exactly had fueled the passion behind her kisses, her lovemaking? He needed to know.
The remarkable change in her had occurred shortly after she’d read that new translation. Could something in it possibly account for such an astounding change? He didn’t see how. But he had to find out what it said. He felt as if some vital part of him could be permanently lost if he continued living with her, making love to her, without clearly understanding her. The danger seemed pressing.
With a cautious glance at the closed bathroom door, he shrugged into his robe and ventured to her dresser. When he’d burst into the room last night, he’d heard a drawer sliding shut. She’d been standing right about here.
Cole opened a drawer. Her underwear drawer. Of course. A classic hiding place. Dismissing the twinge of guilt he felt at invading her privacy, he sifted through the silky panties and bras and discovered nothing hidden among them. He opened another drawer, and another, feeling his way through each. He hit the jackpot on the third one and found the paper beneath a neat stack of Tshirts.
It took him only seconds to read the translation. It wasn’t but a few lines of type, but he stood staring at the words for a good long while. She must strive with body and heart to satisfy his manly needs.
Satisfy … his … manly … needs.
Cole wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or break something. Both, actually. He understood now why she hadn’t wanted him to see this. Because it gave him the upper hand. He could, in theory, name his “needs” at any time, and she would have to strive—with body and heart—to meet them. If she really believed in the curse and felt compelled to comply with its terms.
She obviously did. She’d gone to bed with him the first time for that very reason. She’d even insisted on doing only what was necessary to comply with the curse’s demands. Had that
been her motivation this time, too?
No. He swore it hadn’t. She’d been so lighthearted. Passionate. Earnest. She’d made love to him with emotion. Deep emotion. With body and heart.
He clenched his teeth and drew in a deep, steadying breath through his nostrils. He no longer felt in the least bit like laughing. Before she’d seen this translation, she hadn’t intended to make love to him again. Moments after reading it, she’d engaged him in the best sex he’d ever had. She’d more than “satisfied his manly needs.”
Coincidence? He’d have to be a pie-eyed optimist to believe that.
He took another deep breath, intent on calming his flaring emotions. Why should he feel so angry, so shaken? Even though she’d hidden this demand of the curse from him, she’d never lied. Never tried to disguise the ulterior motives behind their lovemaking, even when he’d wanted her to.
Why the hell did she believe so deeply in that damn curse, anyway? She didn’t seem especially superstitious about any other matter. He hadn’t seen her throwing salt over her shoulder or dodging black cats or avoiding cracks in sidewalks.
Noticing the handwriting scrawled across the bottom of the page, Cole paused in the act of returning the note to the drawer. It was a personal note from the translator. A professor at the university where she’d once worked. A casual greeting. A few lines about mutual friends. At the end, the professor had written, Any news of Phillip? He’s always in my thoughts and prayers.
Phillip. Incredibly enough, Cole had almost forgotten about Tess’s missing fiancé. She hadn’t mentioned him since their limousine ride home from the chapel, when she’d told him she wouldn’t go to bed with him on their wedding night because she was in love with someone else. She’d changed her mind only when she’d learned of the curse’s demand to “plant his seed within her.” And now she was “satisfying his manly needs” for the same reason. Her desire to lift that curse seemed to outweigh all other considerations.
Bothered by that, Cole lifted the clothing from the drawer to return the page to its hiding place. Another item came into view then at the very bottom of the drawer.
A photograph. Not just a snapshot that she’d casually tossed in, but a large, framed portrait. The kind that should be sitting on her dresser or living room mantle. A blond, blue-eyed guy that women would probably consider attractive gazed out with a pensive, studious look. Cole knew immediately who he had to be. Phillip.
He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
She hadn’t moved any furniture, knickknacks or family photos into his house—nothing to personalize a space for herself. She’d brought things like clothes, purses, shoes, paperwork for the business. Only the items she considered necessary for her day-to-day life.
She’d included this photo of Phillip. She hadn’t set it on her dresser, which would have made Cole believe she’d brought it to make a statement. She kept it in a drawer.
He understood photos in drawers. When he’d been a boy, he’d found a picture of his mother. He’d never known her. She’d died before he was a year old, His father hadn’t displayed pictures of her because she’d left him—left both of them—for another man. So Cole had kept her photo in his dresser. And when he’d been feeling particularly alone, particularly unloved, he brought it out. He barely remembered his thoughts about her back then, but he remembered his feelings. He had longed for her. Devoutly. With every fiber of his being.
Did Tess feel the same intensity of longing for this man? Did she bring the photo out when she was alone? Was she that much in love with him?
But if she was, why would she allow something as nonsensical as a curse to force her into another man’s bed?
Slowly an answer occurred to him. He let the stack of Tshirts settle back into place over the photo and the translation, then quietly shut the drawer. Puzzle pieces fell into place, and he didn’t like the picture they made.
A reporter had asked her once if she believed the curse had caused her fiancé‘s disappearance. She’d denied it, but Cole had seen the anguished look in her eyes. He’d held her while she’d struggled to compose herself. He should have known then. He should have realized that she believed the curse had caused Phillip’s disappearance. Did she think that if she complied with all its demands, he might come back?
Cole balled his fists and stared blankly at a far wall. Had she married him, made love to him, to bring Phillip home? Was that the passion he’d felt in her kisses—the passionate belief in a cause? Or, worse yet, the passion she’d felt for Phillip?
He sat down on the bed in a heartsick daze. You’re jumping to conclusions. You know none of that as fact. But for once, the loose ends all fit neatly together.
The bathroom door opened, and Tess peeked out. “Oh, you’re up.” She wore only a towel, and her amazing wealth of auburn hair cascaded freely about her Blender figure. “Good morning,” she greeted with a small but warm smile.
“Good morning.”
“I’m filling the tub. I noticed that it’s, uh…” her gaze took on the same sultry, playful light he remembered from last night “…big enough for two.”
He couldn’t bring himself to reply. She was so damn beautiful it hurt to look at her. And the welcome in her smile seemed so damn sincere. How could she gaze at him like that if she was pining after another man?
“I was thinking what a shame it would be to waste all that hot, wet steam on just me.” She let the door swing open further and posed against the jamb. The peach-colored bath towel barely came to the top of her thighs. Her incredibly long, bare, curvaceous legs reminded him of how he’d kissed his way up them. How they’d felt, wrapped around his shoulders … and later, around his waist…
“Of course, if I’ve already worn you out,” she purred, “I wouldn’t want to push you into physical exhaustion or anything,”
He narrowed his gaze on hers. She knew how to taunt. She surely did. And she knew how to get him hard, even when he didn’t want to be.
“Cole?” A little frown entered her eyes, as if his stillness and silence had finally registered.
But what could he ever hope to gain with stillness and silence? Regardless of how she felt about him—or didn’t feel about him—she’d committed herself to living with him. And sleeping with him. And though she hadn’t admitted it, to “satisfying his manly needs.” For the next five months.
Five months. He would have her for at least that long.
He suddenly knew what he had to do in that span of time. He had to make her stop living in the past. He had to make her see that she was too young, too passionate, to mourn for a man who would probably never come back. He’d been gone for over thirteen months. A man didn’t stay away that long while a woman like Tess waited for him—not if he was alive. At the very least, he would have called her. He had to have met with a fatal accident or foul play—a tragedy that Cole wished on no one.
But Tess couldn’t stop living because of that tragedy. It was time for her to get on with her life. He had to woo her away from Phillip’s memory. How the hell to do that? How could he know what she loved so damn much about him; what he’d given her that no one else seemed able to give? No, he wouldn’t play that game. He couldn’t be Phillip, and wouldn’t try to be. But he could make love to her. He could take her places, and buy her things, and make her laugh.
And make love to her.
“Cole, is something wrong?” Her concern eased some of the tightness in his chest. Nothing would convince him that she didn’t care about him, at least a little.
“Yeah, something’s wrong.” He slowly rose to his feet, allowing his gaze to roam the sweet, beckoning curves of her body. “That towel’s all wrong for you.” He ambled closer, his need to touch her growing into an ache. “I was thinking how much better you’d look—” He slid his hands around her hips. “—wearing only soap suds.”
Sensuous color flooded her skin. Her eyes grew smoky gray. “I guess that depends,” she whispered, sliding her hands beneath his robe, “on w
here you put them.”
His resolve—along with other things—hardened. He’d make the best of his time with her. He’d banish Phillip from her mind, her heart. He’d fill her so completely, she’d only have room for him.
*
Later that morning, Cole pondered the nature of his “manly needs.” It seemed that the more she satisfied them, the stronger they got.
Not that he minded.
They’d made lavish use of soap suds, pounding jets and warm wash cloths. They’d sloshed at least half of the water out of the deep garden tub. He’d damn near drowned himself, and she’d ended up with a mouthful of soap. By the time they got out, they were holding each other up, weak with laughter, and their fingers were wrinkled beyond the prune stage.
But they had made the most mind-blowing love.
They then slipped into bathrobes and lounged on the second-floor piazza with coffee and light pastries, talking about nothing important. Embarrassing things they’d done, crazy things they’d seen. Friends they’d had growing up. Her cats. His dogs.
And when she teased him about his Doberman named Cupcake—the price of promising his youngest goddaughter she could name him—Cole pulled Tess down onto a cushioned chaise lounge and silenced her with long, lush kisses. How could he want her again so soon? How could he not?
He’d promised her a tour of the house and grounds, though, and she wouldn’t settle for a postponement. Gracious though he was in defeat, he couldn’t help murmuring, “A man does have his needs, you know.”
She shot him a quick, stunned glance. The innocence of his expression apparently relieved her of suspicion. Just to be sure, he distracted her with historical anecdotes about the paintings in the corridor outside his bedroom. They whiled away the next couple hours on a tour of Westcott Hall similar to the one the historical society sponsored every fall, except spiced with inside stories of the family’s scandals and peccadilloes. Her laughter, wry observations and overall fascination made time fly by.
They barely made it back from the plantation’s carefully restored outbuildings and the riverside gardens in time for Leo’s culinary audition.
HOT-BLOODED HERO Page 15
