by Foster, Lori
There were no ornate fixtures or candles or lace overlays. No smoldering incense, no colored lights. Her bedspread was plain blue, her carpeting a solid beige, her furniture sturdy light oak in a style of clean, simple lines.
There was no clutter anywhere, nothing fancy, nothing exotic or seductive. It amazed Zane, and further confounded him.
This room matched her as she was now, a petite blonde scrubbed clean of makeup, barefoot, wearing well-worn jeans. An innocent earth child, and doubly sexy because of it.
Tamara took in his frown and stepped away. For the moment, Zane let her retreat, knowing if he reached for her, they’d be back at square one, with her body flush against his where he most wanted it to be. He needed some answers first; he needed to know her at least a little more.
Zane watched her pace the length of the airy room. She went to the window that faced his store and moved the curtains aside to look out. How many nights had she done that? How many nights had she watched him from that window? Maybe he’d felt her gaze, maybe that accounted for his sleepless nights and vivid dreams.
In a soft, agonized whisper, she said, “I’m so, so sorry.”
Zane’s chest constricted tightly at her low apology, at the embarrassment and upset he could hear in her tone. “For what?” he asked, keeping his tone gentle, hoping to soothe her, to gain her confidence.
“Everything.” She shrugged helplessly. “Shocking you as I look now, letting my relatives attack you, even my bold proposition this afternoon.”
Panic ripped through him, and he growled, “I won’t let you take it back.”
She turned to face him, lips parted in surprise.
In three long strides, Zane reached her. “I won’t let you take it back. ” He clasped her shoulders, drew her up to her bare toes. “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”
Her chest rose and fell, her eyes widened and glittered with moonlight. “I do.”
“You said you wanted sex with me.” Zane didn’t want any misunderstandings. He wasn’t sure he could survive a misunderstanding.
Tamara licked her lips slowly, cautiously. “Yes.”
Rather than easing his tension, her confirmation drew him tighter until his every muscle strained and he could count the hard beats of his heart. Knowing he was close to losing it again, Zane forced his fingers to open, to release her, and he stepped away.
He felt like a damn fool. How did she keep doing this to him, pushing him over the edge, making him act like a man he didn’t recognize? How did she make him so aware of her every thought and emotion, until they became his own? He didn’t want any woman to affect him that deeply.
“Good.” He gave a sharp nod. “Then that’s settled.”
“Is it?” She looked him over, taking in his features with a kind of hopefulness that nearly made him groan aloud. “Is it, really?”
“Oh, yeah.” Zane couldn’t quite get over his amazement at her appearance. He could have looked at her all night long and it wouldn’t have been enough. “There’s no backing out for you now.”
Her blonde curls bounced silkily as she shook her head. “I don’t want to back out. I want you.”
In that moment, Zane decided Tamara would have been a valuable addition to the Inquisition. “Damn, don’t say that.”
“Don’t say ... what?”
“That you want me.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, paced up and down. “I don’t know why, I don’t understand this at all, but I’m hanging on by a thread.” He stopped and glared at her. “A real thin thread.”
Tamara came a tiny bit closer. It was too close. He could detect her scent again, and it called to him in some primal way, tightening his testicles, filling him with a surge of hunger until his vision blurred and narrowed on her features.
“You want me, too?” she asked.
Her naivete would have made him laugh in different circumstances. Plainly visible if she only looked, his cock filled his pants, straining for release, straining for her. And even if she missed that rather obvious sign, lust was written all over his face. Hell, even Thanos had seen it, and that’s when Zane had thought he was successfully hiding it.
“I want you,” he confirmed, then added, “And I intend to have you, since you were gracious enough to offer.”
“Thank you.”
He knew women, knew all their tricks, all their ploys. But he had no idea what Tamara was up to—or, for that matter, who she really was. A blonde who pretended to have raven hair? A modem woman who gave the illusion of Old World values? A wild temptress who now looked too sweet to bear?
Slowly circling her, Zane studied Tamara from every angle. Wearing a loose pullover shirt and trim jeans, her blonde hair mussed, her extreme makeup and the abundance of jewelry gone, she looked like innocence personified.
Yet she’d liked being mauled by him on the stairs when he’d only just learned her name. Her sexual nature matched his, or at least came close enough that she’d been as unaware of the surroundings as he had. All that had mattered was getting closer.
But there was something he was missing. Since he’d known her, which had always been in a peripheral way, Tamara had presented herself as a free-spirited Gypsy wrapped in mystery and superstition. Her clothes said as much. Her shop said as much. Her every smile and teasing glance said as much.
And now, by pure chance Zane had caught her looking entirely different. Not like a Gypsy siren, but like a damn schoolgirl.
“How old are you?” he asked abruptly, suddenly uncertain—she appeared so young, so inexperienced, so hopeful.
She tucked her fair hair behind her ears, inadvertently shoring up his perceptions, then said, “Twenty-four. And you?”
“Twenty-seven,” Zane answered, distracted by his thoughts. She didn’t look twenty-four. Of course, she hadn’t really looked like a black-haired Gypsy either. Perhaps that accounted for his edgy reaction to her. He’d suspected she was hiding behind a dark façade.
Would she have gone on deceiving him if he hadn’t made his impromptu visit tonight?
Was she deceiving him even now?
“This is your natural look?” At her blank expression, he clarified. “The blonde hair is natural?”
She touched her hair. “Yes.”
“There are ways I can tell, you know.”
Her brow lifted. “How?”
“When I see you naked.”
She blinked at him, and then, as realization dawned, her face heated and her hand dropped to her side. “I’m a ... a natural blonde.”
Zane sensed her discomfort as he continued to circle her, continued to study her in minute detail. “I will see you naked, you know.”
Nodding, she asked, “And I’ll see you, too?”
Zane hesitated, taken aback by her question. “Did you think I made love fully dressed?”
“Have sex.”
“What?”
He stood behind her, paused momentarily. She replied without looking at him, “We’ll have sex, not make love. We ... you and I barely know each other, so there won’t be any love involved.”
She annoyed him. Zane narrowed his eyes and said through his teeth, “Yeah, I’ll be naked. And it’s fine with me if you want to look your fill.”
Again she said, “Thank you.”
“I’ll be looking my fill, too. Will you like that, Tamara?”
She nodded, but said, “I don’t know.”
Because she had something to hide? For certain she didn’t have a shy bone in her luscious little body. Zane began circling again.
Her fair skin and glittering green eyes went along with the golden hair, so she was likely telling the truth about that. But he wasn’t quite satisfied; there were too many things that didn’t add up.
Would she have worn that black wig to bed with him when he made love to her? Would black eyes have smiled up at him when he was inside her, riding her slow, stroking deep?
Eyes like green fire watched him now, wide and wary at his prolonged silence. Zane stopped in front of
her and smiled.
“Just like that?” he asked, keeping his voice silky and smooth. “You ask me to have sex with you, I agree, and you’re ... grateful?”
Her gaze wavered, embarrassed, then bravely came back to his. “Well, you did say no at first.”
That wasn’t the answer he had expected. It wasn’t practiced or flirtatious or challenging. It was ... honest.
It threw him off. Zane stared at the ceiling, trying to organize his thoughts. It was a mistake. Tamara took swift advantage of his preoccupation and moved against him. Her arms slipped around his waist, squeezed him tight.
“I’ve wanted you,” she whispered, “since the first time I saw you.”
His knees nearly gave out. “Did you cast a damn spell on me or something?” he growled, needing to know.
Her cheek rubbed his chest as she shook her head. “No. I can’t do that.” She glanced up at him. “But I probably would have if I was able.”
Too much honesty, he decided. He wasn’t used to it, didn’t know how to deal with it. Thoughts warred with his instinct, and instinct won. He couldn’t resist cuddling her closer. Everything about the embrace felt right: the way the heat of their bodies melded together, mingling their scents; how her head tucked neatly into his shoulder; how her breasts crushed against his ribs. And that bothered him even more. It shouldn’t feel so right. No embrace had ever felt like this before.
If she hadn’t done something magical to him, then what was going on?
“Why have you waited to say something?” Zane asked. “Why ask me now?”
Her arms tightened. “Every other woman in town has had you,” she complained softly, “So why not me?”
She sounded logical, a woman utilizing a sensible argument. Only there was nothing sensible about Tamara Tremayne or the circumstances.
“So now, today, you decided to pull out the big guns?”
“Big guns?”
He rubbed his chin against her hair, feeling the warmth and softness of it. He wanted to devour her, and he wanted to hold her gently all night. “No man can resist a direct attack. You said you wanted me, which made me want you.” That was only a partial truth. In his dreams, he’d wanted her for a long time.
“You’ve always ignored me,” Tamara said, tilting her head back to see his face. “And I hated it. I tried everything to get your attention, but you always looked through me, or past me.” She drew a deep breath. “Now I’m going to have to leave, and my biggest regret was that I wouldn’t have another chance to be with you, to fulfill a few of my fantasies. So yes, I felt a direct attack was my last resort.”
Zane was still aroused, but now some other emotion prevailed. He didn’t know what it was, so he couldn’t fight against it. “I haven’t been with every woman in town.” For some reason, he wanted her to understand that.
She laughed. “Okay, so there are a few you’re not interested in. I’ve been to the Winston Tavern. I’ve seen the women hanging on your every word. And I saw how much you love it.”
Zane pushed her back a bit, frowning. “You’ve been to the bar? When?” His oldest brother, Cole, ran the bar, and Chase was the bartender. He and Mack worked there part-time, more so back when they were in college. Now Mack was teaching and Zane spent the majority of his hours at his computer store. But the bar was a comforting haven when he wanted to be with friends and family, and it still seemed natural to serve drinks or wipe tables whenever he was around.
Not once could he recall seeing Tamara there.
“Off and on,” Tamara hedged.
“Off and on when?” A thought occurred to him, and his hands tightened on her shoulders. “You were there dressed as you are now, or as the Gypsy?”
As if his question had somehow insulted her, her chin lifted. “Neither. I dress the Gypsy when I work. You heard my relatives. I’m not a very convincing fortune-teller as I really look.” Her upturned nose wrinkled. “I look too young and gullible. So it’s necessary.”
Zane wanted to tell her she was a pretty damn convincing femme fatale no matter how she dressed, but he held the words back.
“You caught me getting ready for bed,” she explained, “so I’m sort of a mess right now. But when I go out, I do know how to clean up proper.”
Zane stared down at her. He was very aware of her body against his, but he had control of himself, and he meant to keep it that way. Talking with her seemed like a good way to maintain that control. “The ghastly makeup?”
“Is like the jewelry and the dark contacts and the wig. I wear makeup, just as most women do, but it’s not so dramatic.”
Zane looked at her mouth, naked and full and so sexy. He touched the corner of her lips with his thumb, brushing softly until she opened, until he could hear her accelerated breathing and see the tip of her pink tongue. “You don’t need makeup.”
Carefully, he lifted his hands to her hair and tangled his fingers in the fine, silky curls. She was baby soft, and it made him wonder about other parts of her, if she was so damn soft all over. His blood surged hotly.
“Answer me this.” His large hands easily held her immobile. “If I had agreed this afternoon, how would you have come to me?”
Her lashes lowered, hiding her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Zane gently tugged on her hair until her face tilted up at him. Restraining himself, he kissed her—a light, teasing kiss—then whispered against her lips, “Yes, you do. Would I have been sleeping with the sultry Gypsy or the sweet little blonde?”
Tamara strained closer, trying to gain full access to his mouth again, but Zane stayed just out of reach, only his breath caressing her lips. She made a soft sound of frustration. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“Tamara....” He loved saying her name, loved the lyrical sound of it, the suggested eroticism, the mystique. It suited her perfectly. “Don’t ever lie to me.”
“A ... a book said I should be bold, that men love boldness in a woman.” She waited for his nod of agreement, then continued. “Especially men who are slaves to their primitive nature.”
“Primitive nature?”
“Men who are ruled by their libidos.” She said it against his mouth, then licked his bottom lip in a suggestive way that made his erection swell and strain against his fly.
Holding himself in check had never been so damn difficult.
“I’d have been the Gypsy,” she whispered, “bold and sensual.” Her green gaze snared his, mesmerized him. “And you’d have loved it.”
Zane took her mouth hard, further scattering her wits, doing it deliberately. It was a great effort not to give in to the demands of his body, but her comment about a book, about slaves and boldness, swirled in his head. He wanted explanations, and he intuitively knew the best way to get them would be to keep her off balance.
She gasped when he ended the kiss. “You think I’m a slave to my sexuality?” As he spoke, he pressed hot, damp kisses against the tender skin of her throat.
Her head tilted back, exposing her to him. “I know you are.”
Zane smiled, nibbling his way down to her shoulder. He was the master, not the slave; she’d understand that soon enough. Spells and curses be damned, he would do as he pleased, and not be caught.
It was what she wanted anyway, what she’d asked for, so there would be no call for him to feel guilty.
Impatience rode him hard, and he decided to get this interview over with. He wanted to take her to his place, where they could be alone, without the twin banshees and a dark behemoth waiting outside the door.
He wanted her naked, stretched out on his bed. With nothing between them except excitement, it wouldn’t matter who she chose to be, the Gypsy or the innocent. He’d take either one.
And listen in satisfaction while she screamed his name, begging for more of the pleasure he’d give her.
Zane nuzzled her throat, inhaling her increasingly potent scent. “Tell me about this book, Tamara.”
Suddenly she
stiffened. A second later, before Zane could reclaim her thoughts, she pushed away from him. He let her go rather than chase after her. Her reaction to a mention of the book was interesting, even if his body rebelled at the distance now between them.
Looking horrified, Tamara backed up and shook her head. Moonlight poured over her in a silver glow, showing her wide eyes, the gentle slope of her narrow nose, her rounded chin. When she was several feet from him, her back to the wall near the door, she said, “The book is—”
A crash from far away echoed in the room. Zane heard the relatives just outside the bedroom door, scrambling around and muttering obscenities. A fist—likely Thanos, given the way the door frame rattled—demanded their attention.
“He’s back,” Thanos thundered.
“Hubert is downstairs,” Olga wailed. “Lord almighty! He’s come for us!”
Tamara flipped on the bedroom light and opened the door. “Hubert is dead!”
“It’s his ghost,” Eva insisted, her hands clasped to her chest, her black eyes filled with dramatic horror.
“There’s no telling what he’s capable of doing in this form!”
“Oh for the love of ...”
Tamara, still muttering to herself, started away. Zane rushed after her. He wondered who Hubert was, and what he had to do with ghosts and the racket that had come from downstairs.
Like a parade, the other three hustled into line behind him.
“What the hell is going on?” Zane asked to Tamara’s retreating back.
She kept moving, forcing Zane to keep up as she raced on light feet for the stairwell that would take her to the main shop.
“Shh,” she cautioned, and then quietly opened the door. It gave an ominous creek, as if tuned for the effect. “I have an intruder, a live one, though my aunts insist on thinking it’s my deceased uncle Hubert.”
He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised at this new turn of events, but just when he thought things couldn’t get more bizarre.... “Your deceased uncle Hubert?”
“Tragic,” Olga whispered from behind Zane’s right shoulder. “Just tragic how he died.”
“And now he wants revenge,” Eva predicted in mournful tones while edging close to Zane’s other side.
