Gently, slowly, he folded her against his upper body, stroking her arms, slipping a hand under her hair so he could trace with one forefinger the vulnerable line of her neck and throat. “Sameh.” He had to clear his throat before he could continue. “I want to kiss you.” He slid his fingers to her throat and triumph filled him when his fingers felt the pulse there. It throbbed away beneath his touch, as rapid and full as his own. Her long, thick lashes lowered slowly, covering those enormous blue eyes, and a shaky sigh escaped from her throat.
She didn’t mind, then. She wasn’t going to zap him.
Exultant, he tipped her chin up. She wanted his kiss; she was as aroused as he was, her breathing fast and shallow, the silky skin beneath his touch flushed and hot. Well, maybe she was half as aroused as he was, he amended. The car’s divided seats were keeping their lower bodies apart, and maybe that was a good thing, considering the condition he was in—for now, anyway.
He lowered his lips, brushed them lightly across hers. It was the most restrained of kisses, just as he intended. She gave a tiny sigh, and her hands, flat against his chest, slid upward to his neck.
He kissed her again, still gently, but with more intensity this time. He opened his lips over hers, and hers parted a little. It took every ounce of control he possessed to keep it light. Her taste was exotic, like fruit and wine. Her breasts were unbearably soft, but their nipples pressed, hard and hot, against his thin cotton shirt. It was taking years off his life, this painful slow seduction.
He deepened the kiss, made it more intimate, probing her mouth with his tongue, stroking her arms and neck in light, feather strokes with his fingertips. She quivered beneath his touch, and he allowed his hand to cup her breast, the delicious heat and weight of it making his arousal dangerous, delicious, urgent.
He freed her mouth to nuzzle at her jawline, her neck, drawing in the sweet, unbearably sensual perfume of her skin, the taste of her body like nectar on his lips.
Another moment and he’d lose control…
“Adam, stop.” Her husky voice wasn’t at all steady.
His body burned with an urgency and hunger that bordered on mania. To release her, he drew on reserves he hadn’t known he possessed. It was small comfort to realize that she looked as shaken as he felt, hair tousled, lips swollen from his kisses, pulse drumming at the base of her throat. The hand still on his shoulder was trembling.
“Adam, this isn’t such a good idea.”
He groaned and tried to hold onto his temper. “Why in bloody hell not?”
Her voice was thick and sad. “I want to join with you, you know that. There’s this attraction between us—the feeling is so powerful it’s hard to resist.” She drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “But sexual union between us is just not possible.”
He gritted his teeth and counted to ten to get some semblance of control over his voice. “Why’s that?” he finally managed.
She moved farther away from him, trying to straighten the slim skirt of her dress. It had ridden up high on her thighs. He could see the tops of her stockings and the barest hint of pristine white panty, and the sight wasn’t helping him get his breath back at all.
“I’m just a visitor here. I’ll be returning to my own time when my research is finished,” she said. “I don’t view sexual union the way you do, and therefore it would cause problems for me to become involved with you.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “What the hell do you mean, you don’t view sex the way I do?”
She was quiet for so long he wondered if she was going to answer at all. Finally, in a sad, small voice, she said, “I sense that for you, union is a kind of elixir, a cure-all you use to keep yourself from the pain of emotional growth. It’s not a giving thing, but a taking.”
He was stunned. Her words seemed to penetrate to his very core, to a place that was vulnerable, that he hadn’t even known was there or thought to protect from her. His stomach clenched, and then his defense mechanisms asserted themselves and he became furious. “You ought to leave analysis to the shrinks, lady,” he snarled. “In fact, you need one pretty bad yourself to get you over this hang-up you’ve got about sex, among other things.”
He reached for the key and started the car with a roar. “And while you’re there you might also mention this whole fantasy world you’ve built up around yourself. I’m sure that’ll fascinate the hell out of any head doctor. Do up your seat belt, we’re leaving.”
He drove her home far too fast, making her gasp at his reckless maneuvering through and around traffic. He knew he was behaving like a total jerk, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Her words kept running through his head, and each time they did, his stomach reacted as if he’d eaten bad clams.
When they were once again in the front driveway of Delilah’s house, he left the engine running and the driver’s-side door open as he went around to let her out. He maintained an icy silence. She fumbled with her seat belt, finally unhooked it, and slid out of the low car. He averted his eyes, even now all too aware of those long, beautiful legs.
She stood looking up at him. “I’d like us to be friends, Adam, if you ever decide to get over being angry with me for telling you the truth,” she said in a dignified voice. Then she turned and ran for the door, and he stood staring after her until he heard it close behind her.
He was half a mile away, stopped at a red light and still cursing when he spotted her blue shoes, abandoned on the floor of the car. He stared at them, and a vision of the lovely woman who’d been wearing them flashed into his mind as clearly as if she still sat in the passenger seat, tugging them off and telling him in that ingenuous way of hers how much her feet hurt.
Ingenuous. Truthful.
A car honked behind him, and he realized the light had changed. He drove off, but more slowly than before, anger giving way to puzzled despair. What Sameh accused him of had struck a nerve, and he probed it like a sore tooth. Part of his brain insisted with righteous anger that she was wrong, that his attitudes toward women and sex were both normal and healthy, that he was the most generous and painstaking of lovers.
Him, selfish? No bloody way. There were more women than he could even remember who could attest to the fact that a liaison with Adam Hawkins left them totally satisfied, begging for more. It was a matter of pride to him, being a thoughtful and considerate lover. Look at the way women had always reacted to him.
Physically, he’d developed early, and from the time he’d reached puberty, women had thrown themselves at him. Hell, he really liked women, he told himself. Thanks to a skilled instructor when he was very young, he knew his way around a female body; he was a connoisseur of what gave a woman pleasure.
He was a sensual man, and other women realized and appreciated it, so where did Sameh get off accusing him of taking, of using sex as—how had she phrased it?—as an emotional cure-all? She had absolutely no grounds to base that assumption on; they’d never even come close to making love. She was simply what teenage boys labeled a cocktease, he assured himself, pulling into the parking lot of Smitty’s, a pub near his house.
Like Bernie said, the smart thing to do was give old Violet her money back and make a point of never laying eyes on Sameh Smith again. L.A. was a big city—it shouldn’t be too hard to avoid her.
He put the top up, locked the car and walked into Smitty’s. The noise and smoke surrounded him like insulation. He’d have a few drinks and forget all about her. A table of young, nubile females snapped to attention as he sat down at the bar, and he allowed his eyes to rove over them. They giggled and flirted. Sure, Sameh was beautiful, but Los Angeles was overflowing with beautiful women. He ordered a double, and then another.
One of the women came over and asked him to dance. She was a dark-haired, exotic creature with lavish breasts that threatened to overflow her halter top. He looked at her for a long moment and then refused. He ordered another drink, instead.
One thing for sure, he was finished with Sameh. That drivel about wanting t
o be friends was ridiculous. He’d never had a woman as a friend, never even considered the idea. So why would he start with a screwed-up blonde who had a million hang-ups and some severe form of mental disorder?
He just wished to God he could get her out of his mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“SAMEH, I’M SO GLAD we did this today.” Frances smiled her wide smile and reached across to squeeze Sameh’s hand.
Delilah had gone off to San Diego with Tyrone early that morning, and Frances had picked Sameh up and driven them here to the shopping area in Larchmont Village, near the exclusive residential community where Delilah lived.
The two women had been exploring the tree-lined boulevards with their fashionable boutiques for several hours, trying on whatever struck their fancy. At Frances’s urging, Sameh had bought some snug name-brand jeans, several pairs of leggings and a cotton sweater in a deep violet shade, and now they were sitting in an outdoor café enjoying tea and pastries.
“You know, I feel as if I’ve had a week’s holiday instead of just a couple of hours away from the kids,” Frances said with a sigh. She shoved a stray tendril of red hair away from her forehead and brushed crumbs from her full denim skirt. “Corey’s therapy takes hours every day, and Kate gets jealous and needs more attention, and would you believe Bernie thinks he actually has to eat at regular intervals?”
Sameh returned Frances’s smile although she felt more like crying for her friend. Under the cheerful words she could see a seething purple cloud of fear and despair.
“I feel like a rat in a wheel sometimes,” Frances confessed. “As though there’s no time for just being me and having fun like this.”
Sameh nodded. “I get like that myself, going faster and faster, and I have only me to take care of. I can imagine how difficult it would be to have Kate and Corey and a house. And a husband.” For some reason, Adam’s face flashed in her mind’s eye. “It must be marvelous, but exhausting, as well.”
Frances rolled her eyes. “You got that right. But I’m also my own worst enemy.” She toyed with her cup. “Bernie’s always telling me to take an afternoon off and shop or paint or do something I want to do. I used to get a baby-sitter in one afternoon every week until Corey was born.” A familiar shadow passed over her mobile features. “Since we found out he was—” the words seemed to catch in her throat “—was handicapped, I stopped doing a lot of things.” Her soft gray eyes had a faraway expression.
“To tell the truth, I guess I lost interest in almost everything.” The words seemed to gain momentum, as if she’d been damming them up. “I’ve gradually stopped seeing all my friends with young children, because all their kids are so damned normal and healthy, and…and I can tell they don’t know what to say to me. About Corey. I feel as if it’s hard for them to have me around, like I’m an accusation or something.”
Frances traced a stain on the table with her finger, her fiery head bent. “And I can’t seem to paint anymore. The energy just isn’t there. Besides, there’ve been appointments with doctors practically every day, and listening to their verdicts about Corey leaves me too depressed to do anything except maybe laundry.” She laughed, glancing up at Sameh, but it was a sad sound.
“Believe me, when all you can do is laundry, that’s major depressed.” She looked up at Sameh again and blurted, “You work with Delilah McDonell. You understand all the New Age things she writes about. In her latest book, she had a whole section on spiritual healing and psychic surgery and things like that. I read it and it gave me hope, but in the past I’ve taken Corey to more so-called healers than I can even list, but so far nothing’s changed for him.”
The raw pain and longing in her eyes, the intensity in her voice, made Sameh ache inside.
“I can’t talk to Bernie about it. He figures they’re all quacks. He says I’m wasting my time and our money. It’s true I’ve spent more than we can afford, and I think he’s right about some of them. Sameh, be honest with me. Do you think that somewhere, somehow, I can find a cure for Corey this way?”
Sameh didn’t answer right away. She had to be extremely careful in what she said to Frances. When she did respond, her voice wasn’t quite steady. “I don’t know enough about the people Delilah writes about to be able to promise that any of them could cure Corey,” she acknowledged, wishing fervently she could offer to do it herself. She’d always wanted to heal, but never before had the desire been so overwhelming. She longed to help Corey, but she just didn’t have the training, or—
Face it, Sameh Smith. You’re a coward.
As for those who might be able to assist Corey, she knew there were authentic healers in the nineties, as there had been in every period of history, but she’d have to meet them to know whether or not they were legitimate. There were a lot of charlatans around. And the real ones might be in obscure corners of the world and almost impossible to find.
She thought about the healing classes she’d attended, remembering her own overwhelming fear of failing at the techniques she’d been taught, and she cursed her timidity. She’d been so petrified, she’d managed to botch most of her cases, but at least there were Adepts there to rectify the situation before she did any real damage.
Here, there was no one to clean up after her if she tried and failed. But Frances’s dire need tore at her soul. She had to do something to help her friend; she had to at least give Frances hope.
“There are some simple things I do know of, some healing exercises that you can do for him yourself,” she finally said, her voice hesitant.
Frances frowned and shook her head. “I really don’t think I’m psychic at all. I’m sure someone else—”
Sameh covered Frances’s hand with her own. “You’re wrong, Frances. Because you love Corey the way you do, your energy can be directed toward him in a powerful, positive way, the same energy you’re spending in searching for someone else to perform a miracle.”
She didn’t add that directing that energy into helping Corey instead of squandering it would also help mend the wound that Corey’s condition had created in Frances herself. Sameh tried to remember other parts of the healing theories, but she felt tongue-tied and inadequate about explaining even the ones she was most familiar with. She wasn’t a teacher yet, after all. But she could do the best she knew how, a small inner voice reminded her. And she wanted to help; she wanted to more than she’d ever wanted anything.
She silently begged the Higher Power for help as she outlined a few simple techniques designed to relax both Frances and her son. She described the meditative processes that would harness and direct the healing energy, and then came a small inspiration.
“I’ll help, too, if you like,” she offered. “First off, I’ll make a recording of that little song Corey enjoyed so much the other evening, and you can play it for him when you do the exercises.” She’d almost forgotten the instinctive sounds she’d used to calm the baby and help him relax. The technique was commonly used in the nurseries at the agrofarm to soothe children, but she kept forgetting that even the simplest devices in her time were still unknown in the nineties. “It will help loosen his muscles and you can play it for him as often as you like.”
The little song she’d hummed was actually a phenomonic, a series of vibrations that perfectly matched Corey’s individual energy system. Its purpose was to calm and soothe, but with subtle variations, it could have other uses. It had the capacity to activate energy patterns from past lives, from times when Corey had a healthy physical body. By activating cell memory, the body would gradually attempt to mimic that previous state of physical well-being. And wasn’t one of the first lessons Sameh had learned in the healing disciplines the magical, mystical power of the body to heal itself, given the opportunity?
She felt hopeful all of a sudden. “I’ll come over whenever it’s convenient for you and show you how the meditation exercises work,” she offered eagerly. “They’re best done when Corey’s sleeping because then his subconscious is most receptive to sugges
tion. And there are several other things we can do, as well, if you agree.”
Tears sparkled in Frances’s eyes. “Would you really do that for us? Oh, Sameh, I’d be forever grateful for your help. I’ve never seen Corey as relaxed and comfortable as he was the night you were over. Even the next day, he seemed better—Bernie remarked on it. How soon can we get started?”
“Whenever you like.”
Frances hesitated. “I feel as if I’m imposing on you, but where Corey’s concerned, I have no pride whatsoever. What about later today? You did say you were free all afternoon…” Without giving Sameh a chance to answer, she rushed on, “See, Bernie’s working tonight. They have that special security thing going on downtown at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. I could make us some pasta and a salad for supper….” She ran out of breath and slumped back in her chair. “Sorry. God, this is scary. I sound just like my mother. She’s a human bulldozer and she never gives anyone a chance to refuse anything. You’ve probably got a hot date—dinner, dancing, romance…”
Sameh shook her head. “Nope. I haven’t a thing planned.” Except a lonely evening spent avoiding malicious old Violet—and wondering if she might hear from Adam. “I’d love to spend it with you and the kids.”
Frances’s face lit up. “Great. Wonderful. You know, Sameh, what you’re saying about trying to help Corey myself?” Her expression was animated now. “It sounds right to me.” She reached over and took both Sameh’s hands in hers and squeezed them. “I’m excited about trying.”
Sameh smiled at her, delighted at the difference in energy she sensed in her friend. At that moment the waiter came and refilled their teapot with hot water, and when he left, Frances sat back in her chair and released a long breath. “Lord, I’ve just been thinking about how I’ve dumped on you today. I’m ashamed of myself. I didn’t intend to turn this into such a heavy scene.” She poured more tea for both of them. “Anyway, enough about me and my problems. Tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself, Sameh. Have you played tourist yet at all? Been on one of the Hollywood studio tours?”
Not Quite an Angel (Harlequin Superromance No. 595) Page 9
