Temptation's Kiss

by Sandra Brown

“Why were you crying?” he asked at long last, taking her face between his palms.

  “My pizza,” she said, gesturing offhandedly.

  A corner of his mouth twitched. As she had been all week, he seemed unable to smile. After a moment he tried it again, and grinned narrowly. “What's wrong with it?”

  He maneuvered them backward toward the table, sliding his feet, careful not to step on her bare toe. He lifted the box top and saw the damage. He made a regretful sound, then pinched off a string of the cheese and popped it into his mouth. “Salvageable. Maybe.” He swallowed noisily and coaxed a smile from her trembling lips. “Why were you crying?” he asked again. His eyes probed hers, searching for answers.

  “For me.”

  “Why?”

  “I'm abysmally unhappy.”

  “Why?”

  “The man I love is going through a very difficult time and I'm afraid he wouldn't want my offer to help him in any way I can.”

  “What an arrogant ass he is. As a matter of fact I think someone once called him that. Why wouldn't he want your help?”

  “Because the last time I saw him I said things to him that shouldn't have been said.”

  “He said something too. Something ugly. No one would blame you for despising the jerk.”

  “He didn't mean it. I know he didn't.” She drew in a breath that rippled like a sob. “I should have been standing by him this week, supporting him, helping him.”

  Josh crushed her against him and, bending from his great height, laid his head on her shoulder. His nose burrowed in the silky hollow of her throat. “You tried, my love, you tried. I wouldn't listen and you were right. I was so damned sure of my own power.” His arms squeezed as though to impress her into his body.“I need you, Megan.”

  His head came up, and his amber eyes studied each feature of her face intently. “I've never said that to another human being in my life,” he admitted. “I've never confessed to needing anyone or anything, but I need you.”

  Her hands clasped the sides of his head, and she threaded her fingers through his dark hair. “I need you too. I need you to cure me of stubbornness and pride.”

  “Pride.” He shook his head in self-deprecation. “I could give you lessons in having too much pride. I've had a chip on my shoulder since I was about ten years old, and the harder someone tried to knock it off, the larger it grew. What I wanted I went after. Come hell or high water, I got it. I just couldn't give you up. I had to have you.”

  He took one of her hands from his hair and kissed the palm. “But winning you isn't worth your despising me in the process. You won't have to give up one thing in your life for me. I swear it. Not your career, not your ambition, nothing. Just be a part of my life. Please.”

  “I wanted to despise you from the first moment I met you, because you saw right through me. More than that, you were always ready to point out my shortcomings.”

  “For pure meanness, just to get a reaction out of you. Anger was better than nothing.”

  “It was always a sweet anger.”

  His eyebrow had regained some of its confidence and curved upward. “Sounds a lot like love to me.”

  She leaned toward him provocatively. “Why don't you kiss me and find out?”

  He needed no second invitation. His mouth opened over hers, and his tongue delved inside with rapacious need. It scoured her mouth, taking away all the bitterness that had risen between them, and leaving behind only the sweet taste of their love.

  “Where's the bedroom?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth.

  She pointed in the general direction, and he urged her to lead him. “How did you get in?” she asked, unfastening the buttons of his shirt as she walked backward in front of him.

  “Through the door. Later I'm going to give you a lecture on leaving it unlocked.” He raked her with a lewd look. “Any sex fiend could come walking in here.”

  On the brink of a laugh, she stopped abruptly. “Josh, what about Air South and Powell?”

  “I'm mad as hell at the whole bunch. If it weren't for them, I'd have been here Sunday night. By the way, remind me to give you another lecture about sneaking out of resorts, renting a car, and driving alone across the whole state of Georgia.”

  He was pushing her inexorably toward the bedroom. “But what about Air South?” she asked.

  His sigh was one of weary surrender when her heels dug into the deep carpet. “I've been in boardrooms all—”

  “Bedrooms?”

  “Boardrooms”

  “Just checking. Proceed.”

  He gave her a withering look. “Just for that crack, I'm not going to tell you anything else now except to say that, by Monday or Tuesday at the latest, the newspaper reporters who had me dead and buried will be forced to write retractions.”

  “I have every confidence in you,” Megan said, coming up on her tiptoes and looping her arms around his neck.

  With their mouths fused and their bodies melded together, his hands curved under her bottom and lifted her off the floor as he carried her the rest of the way into the guest bedroom. He knew she would have felt uncomfortable with him in the room she had shared with James, and her heart overflowed with love. How could she have ever thought him insensitive?

  He set her down slowly, and she slid against him, meeting the hard urgency of his desire on her descent. Lifting heavy eyelids, she looked up at him bewitchingly. She peeled the vest off his shoulders and dropped it to the floor. She slipped the tie over his head and began taking off his shirt. He eased off his shoes with the toe of one foot on the heel of the other and kicked them aside.

  When his shirt had joined the heap of clothes on the floor, she ran her fingers through the mat of hair on his chest. Her sensitive fingertips fluttered over his nipples, which sprang to life, growing erect beneath her touch. With deliberate leisure, she leaned forward to kiss him. Her tongue batted against him lightly. “Do you like that?” she whispered.

  “Find out” he challenged.

  She laid the back of her hand on his chest and shd it down slowly until her fingers went past his belt and into his trousers. He smiled smugly when she raised naughty eyes to his. Closing a fist around his buckle, she began backing toward the double bed, dragging him with her.

  “You're going to marry me, aren't you?” she asked.

  “Will you greet me at the door every night in a sheer robe with nothing on underneath?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I could see your nipples,” he said softly. “And a shadowy hint of this.” His hand touched the top of her thighs with the overabundance of arrogance she'd always accused him of having.

  She could only sigh his name as a familiar liquid fire began to seep through her body at his touch. She sat down on the side of the bed while he rid himself of pants and underwear.

  When he was standing before her with the magnificence of his form revealed, she rested her hands on the slight curve of his waist and leaned forward to press her lips against the silky shaft of hair that pointed down his abdomen. Her head moved, nose nuzzling, lips nibbling. Her tongue danced over his navel and beyond…

  Her name came out of his throat like a prayer, and he dropped to his knees beside the bed. “I've got to love you. For the rest of my life, I'll love you. This is the way it should have been years ago.”

  “It couldn't be then.”

  “But it will be more precious to us now.”

  He began by taking her hand and kissing the palm as he would her mouth. His lips opened over the soft flesh and deflowered it with his thrusting tongue. He slid it along each finger with agonizing slowness, then caught the fingertip in his mouth and sucked it like a candy stick.

  “Please, Josh,” she cried, reaching for his shoulder with her free hand.

  He eluded her grasp. “Let me love you like I wanted to the first time. Slowly. Fully.” He used both hands to pull down the zipper of her robe. With reverence, he lowered it from her shoulders as though uncovering a sacred tr
easure.

  His eyes worshiped her first, surveying her like a rare piece of sculpture created for him alone. Lifting up first one arm, then the other, he kissed the insides of her elbows, finding erogenous places she didn't know she possessed.

  He tugged on the nipples of her breasts while his hands coasted down her ribs. With his thumbs, he massaged the downy mound between her legs with the same erotic rhythm as his tongue circling her nipples.

  She grabbed handfuls of his dark hair and imprisoned his head against her breasts. He wrested himself free. “Shhh, not yet Lie down.”

  She had no energy to argue as he gently set her down. Her head tossed frantically on the pillow as his mouth continued its ritual on her stomach, working ever downward.

  Long moments passed while she swirled through a galaxy of uncharted bliss. It was all the better when he covered her body with his and tightly sheathed himself in the depths of her love. They soared above one universe and went on to the next, each one higher and brighter, until they reached that plane where spirits are united in an everlasting fire of love.

  Replete, they clung together, marveling over the magnitude of the love they shared.

  “I've been selfish again. Forgive me for taking my time,” he said quietly.

  “There's one thing I hope you'll always be fiercely selfish about—your love for me,” she whispered.

  He smiled and cuddled her close against him. “Of that you may be sure, my love. Of that you may be sure.”

  More

  Sandra Brown!

  Please turn this page for a bonus excerpt from

  SWEET ANGER

  available wherever books are sold.

  We've got a two-alarm fire working on Clermont just south of Sixth Avenue. It should be at about 42H on your Mapsco. And get there pronto. I want some good video.”

  The inch-long ash on the end of Pinkie Lewis's cigarette fell unnoticed on his battered, cluttered, littered desk. The harried news director paused long enough to say “Hiya, sweetheart” to the young woman who had just moved aside a day-old Moon Pie, a roll of masking tape, and two cups of cold gray coffee in order to perch on the corner of the desk.

  “When you're done with the fire,” Pinkie went on, returning his attention to the two men lounging by his desk, “swing by that elementary school where the third-graders are writing letters to the Russians. If we have any time left on the six o'clock, it'll make good human interest. Anybody hear from Jack lately? It's taken him four hours to shoot that bit on the drug bust.”

  “Maybe he's hanging around, hoping they'll let him sample the goods.” The videotape photographer grinned as he heaved the camera to his shoulder. The reporter, who was pulling on his sport coat, thought his cohort's suggestion was funny and laughed.

  “I'll have his ass,” Pinkie growled. “So what are you two bozos waiting for?” The grins collapsed. That particular tone in Pinkie's voice could bring about miraculous changes in a man. “The damn fire will be out before you get there. I want to see flames, smoke, tragedy in the making” he yelled, waving his arms descriptively. “Now get out of here!”

  The reporter and cameraman left, stumbling in their haste. Pinkie glowered after them and ran a hand through his hair. Or he would have if he'd had any hair. Actually, he ran his hand over a rapidly growing bald spot that blended into his beefy forehead. It was his florid complexion and fair hair that had given him his nickname.

  “One of these days you're going to have a heart attack,” the young woman commented. Disgustedly she stubbed out three cigarette butts left in the ashtray. They hadn't been properly ground out and were curling acrid smoke into the already polluted atmosphere of the television newsroom.

  “Naw. I drink too much whiskey. It scares sickness off.” Pinkie picked up a Styrofoam cup and took a swig. He made a face at the stale coffee. “Buy you a cup,” he said, taking the woman's arm and guiding her into the hall and toward an alcove where numerous vending machines were tucked outside of the flow of continuous foot traffic.

  As usual, Pinkie's pockets produced no change when he began slapping them in search. “Let me buy this time,” Kari Stewart said, smiling. The coffee was too black and bitter, but it was hot. Crossing her ankles, she leaned against the wall and sipped cautiously.

  Pinkie smiled at her with paternal affection. “God-amighty, you're a sight for sore eyes. Helluva day. One of the video cameras is on the blink. It'll cost a fortune to repair and then I'll catch hell for going over budget. I've got two unexciting but dependable reporters out with flu.” He belched. “I need a drink.”

  “You need a hot, balanced meal, far fewer cigarettes, far less whiskey—”

  “Yes, Mother—”

  “—and a good woman to take care of you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Pinkie asked belligerently. This was a familiar topic of conversation. “You got someone in mind?”

  “Bonnie.”

  “That dried-up old prune! She's too old for me.”

  Kari laughed. The switchboard operator who handled all the calls coming into the television station with amazing alacrity and patience had carried a torch for the crusty news director for years. “You'll never change, Pinkie. You're biased, stubborn, grouchy, and predictable. That's why I love you.” She poked him in the spare tire that sagged over his belt.

  “How'd the interview go?”

  “He was as wretched as he's reputed to be.” That morning Kari had interviewed an aging television sitcom actor who was now doing “legitimate theater” on the dinner theater circuit. “I can see why his varied series went down the tubes. He was rude, obnoxious, and condescending. But I'll have the last laugh. I went to last night's rehearsal. The production is a turkey. And I didn't think anyone could ruin a perfectly wonderful Neil Simon.”

  Pinkie crumpled his empty cup and tossed it in the general direction of the trash can. It didn't make it, but he didn't notice. “Goose the old geezer right in the pride. Don't soft soap it. I want gutsy stuff on the newscast, even during your entertainment segment.”

  Kari saluted. “Right, Chief.”

  Pinkie's beet-red face split into a grin as he lit one of his unfiltered cigarettes. “And that's what I love about you. You don't give me any guff.” He sauntered away in the direction of the newsroom. “And you've got great legs,” he called over his shoulder.

  Kari took the compliment for what it was, a teasing gesture between friends. Pinkie had been her friend and ally ever since she'd signed on with WBTV five years ago. Where others were cowed by the querulous news director, Kari, as a green intern with no more television journalism experience than her college diploma afforded her, had called his bluff one day and forever won his respect. She talked to him as no one else would dare and got away with it be-cause of their mutual affection. She knew he wasn't nearly as fierce as he pretended.

  Pinkie saw in her a dedicated, thorough reporter with initiative. He could count on her not to “screw up,” as he put it. At the same time, he liked her warm personality, her femininity. He had had a hunch that the viewers would be as charmed as he, and he had been proven right.

  When Kari had married Thomas Wynne two years earlier, Pinkie had feared he would lose her. But she had assured him that she wanted to continue working. “Thomas agrees. Until we decide to start a family, he wants me to do anything I want. And I want to keep working for you.”

  “There might be a conflict of interests here, Kari,” Pinkie had said. “How can you impartially cover the city hall beat when your husband is one of the city councilmeh?”

  “I've already thought of that. Much as I hate giving up that beat, I think it's the proper thing to do.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “I've got an idea for an entertainment segment on the news programs.”

  His white eyebrows had jumped up then lowered into a thoughtful frown. “Let's hash it over.”

  Pinkie had trusted her judgment and her ability to implement her idea successfully. Kari Stewart's critiques
were a highlight of every newscast. She was witty and incisive without being scathing or vicious. The viewers adored her.

  Now Kari went into the editing room and closed the door behind her. She dropped into the chair and fished a cartridge of videotape from her oversized bag, which served as both purse and carryall. Pushing back a mass of untamed blond hair from her cheek, she inserted the cartridge into the computerized editing console and began watching the interview she had conducted barely an hour before.

  She picked up the telephone and dialed an extension. “Sam, hi, Kari. Can you bring that tape you shot last night of the rehearsal to editing room three, please? Thanks.”

  A few moments later the door opened behind her and she said, “Just set it down, Sam. Thanks. I'm using that for B-roll. I'll be ready for it in a minute.”

  She was capably punching buttons while scanning the two monitors, one with the unedited tape playing, the other with the edited version she was electronically compiling. She was so engrossed that she didn't notice that the door didn't close.

  “Kari.”

  Pinkie's voice and the unfamiliar tone of it brought her head around. She had seen him in moods ranging from elation when they had scooped all their competitors on a story, to drunken melancholia over a bad ratings report. She had never seen him as he was now: deflated, sagging, abject, and most uncharacteristic of all, pale.

  She half rose out of her chair. “Pinkie? What is it?” He laid a hand on her shoulder and eased her gently back into the chair.

  “An accident report came in over the police radio a few minutes ago.”

  “And?” A cold fist of dread began squeezing her heart. “What kind of accident?”

  He ran his hand over his head, then dragged it down his face, distorting the features. “Auto/pedestrian. Just a few blocks from here, right downtown. I sent a cameraman over there. He just called in.”

  She did stand now, fighting off his hands as he tried to restrain her. “Thomas? Something's happened to Thomas?” There was no one else in her life. Pinkie wouldn't be acting like this if it weren't Thomas.

  She made a mad dash for the door, but Pinkie caught her. “It is Thomas, Kari.”