Impulse

by Catherine Coulter

  In some indefinable way she reminded him of Kathleen, his first wife, a petite Irish girl who’d been all of nineteen and caught up in IRA terrorism, and who’d been killed near Belfast six years ago after she ran away from her stodgy young American husband, Marcus O’Sullivan.

  He turned to smile at Mrs. Oscar Dallmartin, a Greek heiress who’d married a Texas oilman. She was twenty-eight and her husband of three months was an octogenarian. She immediately began a recital on the benefits of having Portuguese sailors for her yacht crew. Marcus tuned her out while memory flooded through him. Memory and regret and some guilt, still lingering, coming out at odd moments like this. If only he and Savage hadn’t been working twenty hours a day with the new company, if only he’d spent just a little more time with Kathleen, asked her what she was studying, and listened, really listened—But he hadn’t. He’d been too busy—the business, and graduate school.

  He’d kissed her good-bye every morning, made love to her nearly every night, even if he had to wake her up when he got home, and then she’d run away—So long ago. And she’d died, killed by a terrorist bomb set in a Belfast bus.

  And he’d gotten the phone call. He’d never told his mom precisely what had happened, just that Kathleen had left him to return to Ireland and she’d died there, by accident. Truths and half-truths. Life was filled with them. Probably Ms. Rafaella Holland, like everyone else, was loaded with half-truths. She was young, but she looked strangely intent, her eyes older than her years would indicate. She looked as if she had to concentrate, had to figure out something, and whatever it was, was very important to her.

  Marcus made up his mind at that point that he’d talk to her, he’d gain her confidence. He’d take her to bed. That vagrant thought—no, now it was a decision, it was something he wanted—surprised him. He told himself it was because in his experience a woman who was well-loved was more open, more spontaneous, more revealing of herself. He had no idea what Rafaella Holland, once pleasured to the best of his abilities, would have to say, but he wanted to find out. This was something new to him—coldly calculating to take a woman to bed. No, he amended to himself. There was nothing cold about his decision at all. And that frightened him because it made his focus blur a bit. No, he wasn’t about to allow this woman to sidetrack him even for the pleasure he’d surely get from her in bed. He couldn’t afford it. He’d be a fool to allow it. If he lost his edge, his concentration, he could be dead. No, he had to keep himself apart—and he could do it.

  “Would you like a glass of special champagne?”

  Rafaella turned very slowly, her eyes level with the middle of his white-as-snow dress shirt. She didn’t say a thing, just slowly raised her eyes until she was looking at him full-face.

  “What’s so special about your champagne?”

  “It’s from California.”

  She laughed.

  “It’s also the cheap—rather, the least dear of the champagnes served at Porto Bianco. The owner likes it—that’s the only reason we carry it.”

  “Who’s the owner?”

  “A Mr. Dominick Giovanni.” He watched her, smiling easily, as he spoke. Her expression remained one of polite interest, but her eyes—Something had flickered there, some sort of recognition. Well, now he knew what he was going to do. He was also pleased, as well as vastly relieved, that she was responding to him. As he signaled a waiter, he asked, “Do you know Mr. Giovanni?”

  “I would say from his name that he’s Italian, that’s about all.”

  “He’s really from San Francisco. Born and bred an American.”

  “Oh? Why ever did he buy this place?”

  “You are full of questions, aren’t you? If you drink that champagne with me, I just might tell you.”

  Rafaella shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Why not, indeed.” He offered her his arm.

  Nice breasts, he thought, very nice. No bra. He could just slip his fingers inside and feel—

  Marcus frowned at himself. His brain wasn’t operating smoothly. He mentally set her aside. He didn’t trust her. He wanted to hear it from her own mouth that she was just a celebrity groupie and that that prompted her interest in Coco. But he didn’t believe it. No, she’d been too intense in those few minutes she’d spent with Coco. It was as if it were vitally important to her that Coco cooperate with her. He would find out soon enough all about her. More than anything, he realized now, he wanted to know why she’d been out running at dawn, then crying as if her heart were breaking.

  Rafaella was enjoying herself. Marcus Devlin was coming onto her and she knew she could handle him quite easily. She didn’t know why he’d changed his attitude toward her, but it was a relief. She had to deal with too much to have to worry about fending him off, him and his distrust of her. Even in her fine new plumage, though, she knew she couldn’t compete with all the truly gorgeous women around in the casino, and yet he seemed to have chosen her. She remembered what Punk had told her and wondered some more. So he liked only brunettes, did he?

  He directed her to a small table just outside the casino on a patio that overlooked the Caribbean. There was a half-moon, immensely beautiful, starkly white. The waves hissed and splashed over the sand and rocks on the beach some fifty yards away. The casino was set on a slight promontory with frangipani trees everywhere, and their sweet scent filled her nostrils.

  “This is wonderful,” she said as she sat down.

  “Yes,” Marcus agreed, and nodded to the waiter, a gorgeous hunk of a man with auburn hair not far from the color of Rafaella’s, who’d brought the champagne in Waterford crystal goblets on a silver tray.

  The California champagne was more tart than Rafaella was used to, but it was bubbly and cold and she smiled as she sipped it.

  She stopped herself just in time. Tell me about yourself, Marcus. God, if she said something like that, he’d probably get up and leave.

  “How long have you been here on the island?” she asked instead.

  “Since it opened in the fall of 1998—rather, since Mr. Giovanni bought it and opened it. A long time, actually. I travel a good deal. One needs to. An island, no matter how beautiful, is still an island, and you tend to go a bit crazy if you stay too long at a time.”

  Rafaella digested that. “How did you come to be the manager here? Were you the manager of a resort back in the States?”

  He just shrugged. “If I give you your twenty questions now, then what will we talk about?”

  “Sorry, I’m just interested.”

  Like a reporter would be interested? Now, that was a possibility.

  “My turn now. Would you like to tell me what you do? Or would you like to dance? Or have a late supper? Or play roulette? Or make love with me?”

  Rafaella looked him straight in his very dark blue eyes and said, “All of the above, I think. All a matter of time and energy, I suppose.”

  He gave her a lazy smile and she realized that she’d just made her decision. It astounded her, but she didn’t want to back down. She’d also been seriously inaccurate about this man. He was slippery and smooth and dangerous. The thought of trying to manipulate him, to control him, was laughable. If she had a brain, she’d get out of his sight this very minute. She wasn’t comfortable with one-night stands, and had had only one, with her journalism professor at Columbia, an older man she’d worshiped. She’d seen him as the most perfect of men, the highest human form, an intellectual, and probably the perfect lover. Well, he’d been lousy in bed.

  Marcus wouldn’t be lousy in bed. Some handsome men were, because they figured women should do whatever they wanted just to be seen with them. Marcus wouldn’t be that way. She told herself she could hold back, could change her mind; she could still settle for sanity. She could say no.

  He rose suddenly and smiled down at her. “In the order I mentioned, or would you like to go from the last backward to the first? Or perhaps start in the middle?”

  “I thought you only went to bed with petite brunettes.”


  He raised an eyebrow at that. “I imagine that Punk told you I don’t usually go to bed with anyone, Ms. Holland, particularly guests of Porto Bianco.”

  “Then you expect me to say no? Throw my special champagne in your face?”

  “It’s just not my practice to sleep with my guests.”

  “You’re gay, then?”

  He laughed. “All right, you win. You’ve challenged my manhood, denigrated my machismo, throttled my ego, cut me to my masculine quick.”

  “All of that? I hadn’t realized I was so good.”

  “We’ll see just how good you are, Ms. Holland. While we walk to my villa, why don’t you tell me what you do for a living? Or are you one of the rich and idle?” He paused a moment, and looked down at her profile: It was arrogant, the tilt of her head. He remembered that vulnerable woman crying her eyes out on the beach at dawn. “No, you’ve never been idle in your life, have you? Careful, watch your step.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “What college did you go to?”

  “Columbia.”

  Marcus stopped in front of his villa. It was set back, the most private of all the villas, surrounded by bushes and trees and overflowing bougainvillea. He slowly turned Rafaella to face him. He lifted her chin with his fingertips and lowered his head. His mouth covered hers.

  Her mouth was soft but cold, unresponsive, just as he’d expected. At best, she was uncertain about going to bed with him. Why had she agreed? Or had she? Why the hell did he want her so much? He decided to push her, just a bit.

  He very calmly slipped his fingers beneath the silk hibiscus and unfastened the button that held her gown together, and before she could react, he shoved the panels off her shoulders and pulled the top down to her waist, held there only by the red silk flower. Her pale breasts were bare in the moonlight.

  “Very nice,” he said, bent her back over his arm, and took her nipple in his mouth.

  Seven

  Marcus raised his head and looked down at her. She was staring up at him, her eyes wide, bewildered. He felt slight quivers going through her. “You’re very lovely, Rafaella,” he said, and looked down again at his hand cupping her breast.

  Rafaella felt sexy, and she wanted him, wanted him more than she had wanted any man in a very long time. What she felt most of all was surprise. She hadn’t expected this. She wanted him to do more. She was standing in the moonlight—a more romantic spot on earth she couldn’t imagine—letting a man she’d just met and probably didn’t like all that much fondle her breasts, and it was wonderful. Her dress was hanging at her waist, held up only by the silk hibiscus.

  She suddenly felt very much a fool, standing there half-naked, Marcus completely in control, completely dressed. “I’m cold,” she said, and tried to pull away from him.

  “In that case—” he said, and pulled her against him. She felt the buttons on his dress shirt press against her naked skin, felt his warm hands stroke up and down her back. “Better?”

  What could she say to that? Either No, it’s not better, I want to go home now. Or Yes, it’s better, but could you please just get on with it?

  Instead she just nodded and raised her face. He smiled and kissed her again, this time deeper, his tongue easing slowly between her lips, touching hers, not pushing, just acquainting himself with the feel of her, her scent. He tasted like the California champagne and he felt hard and very nice indeed beneath her hands. She hadn’t realized that she was squeezing his back, feeling him, until that moment.

  This was odd, she realized in a moment of dispassionate sensibility. She wasn’t the sort to get carried away by the passion of the moment. Most important, she didn’t like not being in control. And here she was hanging over his arm like a heroine in a 1920’s Valentino movie. It was humiliating and embarrassing. She tried to pull away, but not with all that great an effort.

  “Listen, Marcus, when I want to have an orgasm, I’ll tell you.”

  He raised his face, taking in her outburst, and laughed. “You will, will you? Well, Ms. Holland, let’s just see, shall we?”

  Still he didn’t take her inside his villa. Instead he kissed her again, talking into her mouth, telling her how he liked her breasts, the feel of her dark pink nipples, and as he talked he unfastened the silk flower and her gown pooled at her feet, leaving her standing there wearing only her panties and her high heels. “Now, let’s see,” he said, and his fingers slipped inside her bikinis and splayed over her buttocks, squeezing her flesh, fitting his fingers around her. Then he lifted her a bit, and his fingers rubbed against her wet flesh, and then he rested, hugging upward against her. She’d never had a man do this to her before, and she’d never felt anything like it in her life.

  His fingers were just resting there, not moving at all, and she was burning and burning and she wanted him to get on with it, but he seemed content with things just the way they were. She shoved against his chest.

  But not very hard. He just pulled her more tightly against him and continued kissing her and telling her what he was going to do with his fingers.

  “The first thing is to learn how you’re shaped, just to cup around you and see how you feel to me. Nice, Ms. Holland, very nice. You’re wet and very warm, and now, let me move just a bit—”

  His fingers were sliding over her, pushing downward to touch her and part and find her, and it was the most exciting feeling she could imagine and she couldn’t believe it. She held her breath until he was laughing in her mouth and saying, “Now, Ms. Holland, that’s quite a reaction from you. I want to see how you feel around my finger, and then I’ll try two fingers—”

  She jumped and clutched his shoulders when he slowly worked his middle finger into her. “Ah, I could call this home, I think.” And she felt him ease another finger into her, then widen them inside her and sigh with pleasure. He started pushing deeper, and she didn’t even think about objecting, because then his thumb was rubbing over her and she thought blankly: My God, I’m going to come and I’m standing here like an idiot, naked, and this damned man is completely clothed and—

  She cried out and he caught her mouth again and then did something that sent her right over the edge. Again. He lifted her, his fingers still working her, and laid her on her back on the sweet grass, her gown spread beneath her. He pulled her legs apart, widened them, and brought them over his shoulders. He fitted his hands under her, lifted her, and then brought his mouth down on her. The instant his tongue touched her, his fingers went back inside her and she yelled and exploded inside.

  His mouth covered hers again and he told her to keep crying out, that he loved it, told her to keep jerking her hips against his working fingers, and he kept speaking as he looked down at her face, soft and pale in the moonlight.

  “I like this. You’re very responsive, Ms. Holland.” And he caressed her until she was limp and exhausted and wanted to just float away into pleasurable oblivion.

  “Surprised?”

  “An understatement,” she said, and touched her fingertips to his cheek. “I’ve never before felt quite like this—well, that is, you are very—”

  “Now, my dear Ms. Holland,” he said, interrupting her easily, “let’s get you back to your villa.”

  “What? My villa? But don’t you want to—?”

  She shut her mouth, stared up at him, and it was then that she knew, she fully realized, what he’d done to her, realized that she’d been too blind to see what he was doing to her. She’d wanted him to the exclusion of all rational thought, she’d even forgotten that earlier in the day she’d been wary of him and as distrustful of him as he had been of her. Only he’d won. He’d kept control; she’d lost hers. He’d used her and controlled her. His victory over her had been complete. She wanted to scream at herself for being such a fool, and she wanted to kill him.

  “Get away from me.”

  “All right,” he said, and rose. He simply stood over her, dressed in his formal evening clothes, and watched her get herself together, jerking h
er gown up over her hips, trying to fasten that stupid button at the waist. The red silk flower looked wilted. Rafaella looked wildly around for her panties but didn’t see them. They were actually in the pocket of his jacket, but he knew she was too furious with him, with herself, to ask him if he knew where her underwear was.

  He’d never taken off her heels, and he watched her try to straighten the straps that had gotten off-kilter with her frantic movements. “Here,” he said, knelt, and shoved the straps into place. She stood there for an instant in mute surprise, then yelled at him, “Go to hell, you bastard!” She ran away, nearly stumbling on the three-inch heels, until she was gone from his view.

  He stood there breathing fast, his cock hard and so heavy he hurt. Why the hell had he treated her like that? He’d never done such a thing before. He’d caressed her into oblivion, then humiliated her, and he didn’t understand why he’d done it. And then he got a glimmer of why he hadn’t allowed her to touch him, to actively love him, to share herself with him. Why he hadn’t allowed himself to be free with her. He’d realized on a gut level that the risk was too great.

  She was different; she wasn’t just a spoiled rich lady here to have fun with the help. No, she was different. She would see him, perhaps guess more than she should about him, and if she did, it would be his fault and it could ruin everything.

  The hell of it was that he hadn’t learned a thing about her, not a damned thing except that she was beautifully responsive and giving and loving until she realized what he’d done to her. Watching her, feeling her quiver, hearing her cries, knowing all her pleasure was from him, made him swell with triumph and pleasure and need. He tried to tell himself that what he’d wanted to do was teach her a lesson, but it wasn’t true.