by Stuart, Anne
She was too weary to fight. Her heart was working, her lungs were working, but her brain was still on automatic pilot. “Got it,” she murmured in a rusty voice. And closing her eyes again, she shut him and all the troublesome world out, falling into a sated sleep.
Chapter Fifteen
HE LOOKED DOWN at her, lying so sweetly, so peacefully, curled up in his arms. Her long, damp hair was wrapped around both of them, her warm brown eyes were closed in sleep, and one small, defenseless hand was pressed against her shadowed face. The other was resting against his shoulder in an unconscious expression of trust.
Who would have thought it? He stretched out in the small bed that had become pleasantly smaller with the addition of a much-longed-for companion. Who would have thought he’d fall in love with someone like Sybil-Saralee Richardson?
Adelle had been much more his style—leggy, sophisticated, ambitious, not a trace of fantasy in her elegant, cynical body. The woman lying next to him was, at best, passably pretty. Until she smiled, and his heart turned over. Or frowned, and he wanted to kiss her. Or looked abstracted, and he wanted to tickle her. In fact, no matter what she did, she captivated him. Illogical as it was, he was lost.
And the woman lying next to him believed in the most ridiculous things. What had that character in Through the Looking-Glass said? “Sometimes, I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” He had little doubt that Saralee Richardson bettered that record.
She’d left elegant suburbia and a yuppie marriage for the rustic simplicity of wood stoves and blizzards, she wore cottons and corduroys and seemed oddly shy about sex, and the depth of his feeling for her left him shocked past denial.
She murmured something, shifting closer to him, and her hand tightened on his shoulder for a moment. He could see the mark of his teeth on her soft lower lip. That sudden act of possessive savagery startled him in retrospect. He’d always prided himself on his open-mindedness when it came to relationships; he believed that he’d never hold a woman if she wanted to leave.
Well, those noble days were over. If Sybil put up much more of a fight, he’d kidnap her and carry her off to Cambridge—
No, he wouldn’t, much as the fantasy appealed to him in his current weary, semi-aroused state. He’d be patient, charming, tolerant; he’d win her over by hook or by crook or by surreptitious doses of every love philtre known to man. And if that didn’t work, then he’d kidnap her.
It was still snowing, and the rising sun had a hard time making inroads on the storm. He ran a tender, inquisitive hand down her back beneath the heavy quilts. Her skin was warm and responsive, even in sleep, and she murmured something low and definitely erotic. He ducked his head down to capture her lips again, but something about the shadows under her eyes, the faint trace of distant tears, stopped him. She’d only been asleep for less than an hour; he could give her a little time. With a storm still raging outside, there was no way she could run away. They’d have time.
SHE HAD NIGHTMARES. In the calm light of day she knew she wasn’t being completely honest, to call them that. But they were the same sort of dreams she’d been plagued with ever since Nicholas Fitzsimmons had arrived in Danbury. Erotic, explicit dreams, full of sexual detail. She could interpret the dreams in a hundred different ways, but one thing she couldn’t avoid—she was physically obsessed with the man.
Not that it should be a surprise, she thought sleepily, curling up against him, nuzzling her face against the smooth, warm skin of his shoulder. Why else would she be in bed with him?
Her energy had certainly gotten diffused last night. If what Leona maintained was true, she wouldn’t be able to dowse right now to save her life, although dowsing was the last thing she had in mind right then.
His hand was traveling up her back, slowly, gently, the touch of his lightly callused fingertips exquisitely arousing. She should open her eyes, tell him to take his hands off her and climb out of this bed.
But if she didn’t open her eyes, she wouldn’t have to face anything, would she? She could just lie back and enjoy it, pretend it was just one more of those deliciously, frighteningly erotic dreams she’d been suffering—“suffering” was hardly the word for it. She could just lie there.
“Open your eyes, Saralee.”
How did he know she wasn’t a heavy sleeper? She kept her breathing deep and steady, gave a realistic little wiggle and kept her eyes shut.
His hand slid around her hip, over her flat stomach, as his mouth gently brushed her lips. Her own mouth felt tender, deliciously so, and it was all she could do not to kiss him back. But she kept her eyes shut.
“Open your eyes, Saralee.” His voice was muffled as he trailed kisses down her neck, pushing her damp tangle of hair out of the way as he went. She wanted to help him, wanted to move closer, she wanted his hands and his mouth on her breasts. She kept her eyes shut.
He pushed the heavy quilts out of the way, and the cool air danced across her flushed skin. One hand stayed beneath the covers, stroking her trembling, fluttering stomach, the other slid under her shoulders, pulling her closer.
“Open your eyes, Saralee,” he whispered, as his damp, open mouth captured her breast, his rough tongue swirling around the tightly aroused nipple. Her body arched in immediate reaction, her fingers clenched the sheet beneath her and she could feel the heat and dampness burning between her legs. She kept her eyes shut.
He was holding her as if she were a feast for his delight. He sucked at her breast, his hand trailing across her stomach, sliding lower and lower as her legs opened obligingly for him. His long, clever fingers knew just what they were looking for, and her body arched again in helpless response. A small, hungry moan sounded from the back of her throat.
“Open your eyes, Saralee,” he whispered, moving his mouth from her aching breasts back to her bruised lips. She opened her mouth for him, for his plunging, invading tongue, as she opened her legs for him, for his clever, clever hands. But she kept her eyes shut.
A thousand tiny wings beat at her brain, a swirling mist of impenetrable snow surrounded her. She wanted him, she needed him, ached for him, so much that she was afraid she would weep with longing. And he knew it; he was too experienced a man not to recognize the signs. He had no qualms about taking advantage of a sleeping woman, and she had no qualms about faking sleep. She lay there, drowsy, passive, as his hands pulled her to the center of the soft bed, arranging her body for his invasion.
She could sense his shadowy presence above her in the dim light behind her eyelids. And then she felt him, hot and hard and ready against her.
He pressed against her, entering her very, very slowly, the pleasure of his measured advance sending shivers through her body. She arched up, wanting all of him, wanting it now, but he wasn’t to be rushed. His control was absolute, his breathing labored but steady, as he filled her with unhurried, deliberate care, until he was there, filling her completely. Her body was covered with a fine film of sweat as she tightened around him, savoring the feel of him, the size and strength and wonder—
And suddenly he was gone, pulling from her.
She arched up, reaching for him, but his hard hands held her down on the bed. “Open your eyes, Saralee,” he said, and she knew it was for the last time.
Her eyes flew open, looking up into his intent, glowing ones in mute appeal. He still didn’t move, and she could feel him, waiting, teasing, pressing against her with his heat and power.
“That’s better,” he said, and the raw note in his voice was the only sign of strain. She saw the knotted muscles in his long arms as he held himself away from her, the sheen of sweat on his brow beneath the widow’s peak, the gleam of his topaz-colored eyes. “I want you to know what you’re doing. I want a participant, not a victim.”
She lay unmoving in the center of the big bed. The old mattress dipped in the middle, cradling he
r, and he loomed over her, so that she felt trapped, imprisoned by the bed and Nick’s hot, aroused body.
“I know what I’m doing,” she said, and her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.
He looked down at her for a long, troubled moment. “Lord, I hope so,” he said. Then he brought them together again, this time in a low, hard thrust that pushed her deeper into the hollow of the bed.
They took their time. The bed was soft and warm, their bodies relaxed and comfortable after their first, fevered coupling. This was the time to learn each other, to find what pleased them, where to stroke, where to kiss, where to nip lightly with sharp teeth. When to be fast, when to be blissfully, agonizingly slow, when to be soft and gentle, when to be just the tiniest bit rough.
The windows were covered with snow, and no one could look in. No one would look for her, no one would question her—everyone thought she was still out of town. She had nothing to do but learn Nick’s body and learn a few surprising things about her own.
At first she’d tried to hurry him, being accustomed to her ex-husband’s efficient attitude toward lovemaking. But Nick wouldn’t be hurried; he wanted to savor, and savor he did. There wasn’t an inch on her body he hadn’t kissed, he moved her from position to position with gentle, demanding hands, and each new position carried her higher. Each time, when she thought she couldn’t possibly feel any more, he’d showed her that she could.
Finally it was up to her. It was time to shatter his control as he had shattered hers, over and over again. She pushed him back on the bed, rolled him over and sat astride him, her long hair rippling down her back, her brown eyes blazing in delight as this time she set the pace. When he reached out to cup her hips she moved his hands away, pressing them down on the mattress as she rocked, back and forth, teasing him as he had teased her. He was panting, sweating, his golden eyes glazed, and his last trace of control snapped as he arched up in a last, powerful thrust. He spilled himself inside her with a raw, guttural cry, one that echoed in Sybil’s heart as she joined him.
She collapsed on top of him, boneless him, her body drained and numb. She could feel his heart racing against her cheek, she could taste the salty tang of his sweat, she could feel the faint tremors that rippled over his body, tremors that matched her own. She realized she was smiling, a stupid, goofy smile against that warm, pounding chest, and for a brief moment she wondered what in the world had gotten into her. An old line came back to her—the devil made me do it. A little shiver ran down her backbone.
It was followed by the lazy stroke of Nick’s hand, and that odd trace of nervousness vanished. “I hate to think what would have happened,” he said huskily, “if that love potion actually worked.”
It took all her energy, but she lifted her weary head to look down at him. She liked what she saw. He looked sleepy, dazed and completely satisfied. He even looked, just a little bit, like a man in love.
“If that potion had worked,” she murmured, “you’d probably be dead.”
He managed a tired grin. “I’m not quite sure that I’m not. I think,” he said, “I’ve unleashed a monster.”
“I think,” she said, “maybe you have.”
WHEN SYBIL AWOKE the next time the clock next to Nick’s bed said twelve-thirty and the storm was over. Bright, glaring sunlight was pouring in the uncurtained window, reflecting off the thick white blanket of snow that covered everything. She closed her eyes against that glare, lying back in the bed, alone and sticky and sore.
The house was empty, she knew that without question. For a moment she wondered if Nick had run back to Cambridge. At that moment she would have been very happy never to see him again.
But she knew that was too much to hope for. She straggled out of the bed, pulling the top sheet with her, and wandered into the living room. The wood stove was kicking out heat, and somewhere she could smell coffee. Nick might be part and parcel of that coffee, in which case she could do without it, but she didn’t think so. The house had an indefinably empty feel that was unmistakable.
The coffee was sitting in a carafe, keeping warm just for her. The note was lying beside it. “Couldn’t wake you this time. Steve at the garage towed your Subaru in and is giving me a ride to Burlington to pick up the Jaguar. Be back around five. Be here.”
Short, succinct, she thought with a curl of her lip, crumpling the note in one fist. There was writing on the back, and out of curiosity she flattened out the paper. “P.S. There’s some extra love philtre in the refrigerator.”
She ripped the note into tiny pieces and left them on the floor. She poured herself a cup of his coffee, because without it she would die, and stomped back into the living room.
She had no reason to be mad at him. He hadn’t taken unfair advantage of her, it hadn’t been rape, it hadn’t even been seduction. It had been mutual, and that was what she couldn’t accept. She would have been all right if it had just been last night. It would have been all right if she’d fooled him into thinking she was asleep this morning. But no, he had made sure she was wide awake and completely aware of everything he was doing to her more than willing body, and everything she was doing to his. Damn him.
She stretched out on the sofa that had been the beginning of her downfall last night, unsure if she was completely miserable, deliriously happy, or some other extreme emotion. She pulled the maroon sheet around her body and sipped the strong black coffee. To be perfectly fair, she had to admit that there had been advantages to last night. While Colin’s lovemaking had never been unpleasant, and What’s-his-name in college had been exciting in an illicit sort of way, nothing had ever been as overwhelming as the last few hours had been. For years she had wondered if she were even capable of feeling those kinds of reactions. Now she knew she was, and if Nick could bring them out in her, so could someone else. Couldn’t they?
Couldn’t she be grateful, enjoy the sex and wave a cheerful goodbye when he left? After all, she had a life she enjoyed up here, away from the pressures of the modern rat race. She didn’t want to go back, did she? He certainly wasn’t going to stay. So couldn’t she just lie back and enjoy herself?
“No.” She jumped before she realized she’d spoken the word out loud. But she said it again, for good measure. “No.”
It simply wasn’t in her nature, or in the nature of most women, for that matter. She couldn’t give a man her body without giving him her heart. It was that simple, and Nicholas Fitzsimmons was the wrong man for such a gift.
It was also, she realized with a sense of shock, too late. Somewhere along the line, while she was fighting with him, and hiding from him, baiting him and avoiding him, somewhere along the line she’d given in. She’d fallen in love with the man. Before she’d given her body, she’d given her heart and mind and soul, and that was exactly why she’d been fighting so hard. What was the use of giving your heart and mind and soul to someone who didn’t want them?
She’d already failed at marriage. She wasn’t cut out for connubial bliss, for suburbia and two-point-three children and happy ever after. Colin had been sweet, tolerant and undemanding, and she had suffocated to the point that she would have killed to escape.
How much worse would it be with a narrow-minded, overbearing tyrant like Nick? Someone who mocked everything she believed in, who rode roughshod over her objections and second thoughts. How much worse could it be with someone she loved to the point of obsession?
What had he whispered last night? “You’re mine now,” he’d said. “I just won your soul.” And he’d bitten her.
A stray hand reached up and touched her lip. It stung slightly, and she pulled her hand back, trembling. She’d almost forgotten that odd, possessive interchange. Now that he had her, would he still want her? And for how long?
“Be here,” he’d ordered. Well, that was definitely out. If she had to walk through a howling blizzard, she was getting home, away f
rom him for long enough to think this mess through. If she stayed here she’d end up back in that high, soft bed, and heaven knows if she would have the determination to climb out again before he headed back to Cambridge.
“Damn,” she muttered, draining the coffee. The sheet slipped off her as she stood, and for a moment she surveyed her body, from the tips of her toes, still clad in knee socks, up the nude length of her. Her winter-pale body had bruises, bites and other signs of her occupation during last night and this morning. At no point had Nick hurt her, but he’d certainly left his mark on her.
She sighed, pulling the sheet back around her. First things first, and the first thing she had to do was get the hell out of there. She headed directly toward the phone, dialing Dulcy’s number. No answer.
She only hesitated a moment before hanging it up and dialing again. If this one failed her, she’d walk.
Three long, fateful rings, and then a cozy little voice murmured, “Hello?”
“Leona,” Sybil said, almost weak with relief. “Thank God you’re there. I need your help.”
Chapter Sixteen
“DIDN’T I WARN you?” Leona questioned in her most plaintive voice, her tiny dark eyes glued to the snow-packed road ahead of them. She drove very slowly and carefully, so slowly and carefully, in fact, that it took her half an hour to traverse a stretch of road that took Sybil five minutes and a normal driver ten.
But beggars can’t be choosers, Sybil thought, huddling down farther in the car seat, shivering in her cloth coat, silk dress and bare legs. She’d been lucky to find that much of her clothing; she’d even considered borrowing something of Nick’s, but common sense had warned her against it. For one thing, he was more than a foot taller than she was. For another, it would give him the perfect excuse to come over and retrieve whatever she’d borrowed and she didn’t want to give him an excuse.
