by Anne Stuart
If the result came out sounding rather breathless, it was only to be expected, since his tongue had abandoned the quest for spilled Scotch and was now concentrating on the tightly budded nipple beneath his mouth.
He raised his head for a moment, his eyes gleaming darkly in the firelight. “Yes,” he said. “Unless you have any objections?”
She had a thousand, but right now she couldn’t bring a single one to mind. She was lying on her back in her grandparents’ living room, about to be seduced in the same room where she’d once played jacks. The sleeping bags beneath her had seen many a teenage slumber party—she should feel hopelessly decadent.
What she felt was hopelessly in love. “No objection, counselor,” she said. And then he kissed her.
Her arms slid around his neck, pulling him down to her, and her mouth opened beneath his, sweetly, generously, kissing him back with all the passionate enthusiasm she had in her. His mouth slanted across hers, nibbling, teasing, and she could taste the whiskey, the saltiness of her skin, on his tongue. She kissed him back, reveling in her sudden freedom, reveling in the dizzying wonder of it, so caught up with the mingling of their mouths that she was scarcely aware of his deft hands on her zipper, unfastening her jeans and sliding them down over her hips. He broke the kiss for a moment, long enough to toss the jeans into a corner, and then just as quickly divested her of her shirt and bra, with the same deft grace.
His eyes were dark with desire, and there was an expression of almost smug possession on his face as he sat back to unbutton his shirt. It was an expression she knew she should hate, and yet somehow she found it deeply flattering. The shirt joined her clothes in a pile, followed by his jeans, and his flesh was gilded by the firelight, a golden bronze color glowing with heat and desire. He sank down beside her, taking her willing hands in his and pressing them against his smoothly muscled chest, and the tips of her fingers caressed him, absorbing the feel of him.
“You aren’t going to change your mind?” he asked, his voice a husky rasp. “I don’t think I could stand it if you changed your mind.”
“You could always change it back for me,” she said, her hands drifting along his torso, the smooth, sleek hide of him.
“I don’t want to do that. I want you to want me.” He wasn’t touching her now, instead he was letting her touch him, letting her fingertips dance over his gilded flesh, explore the smooth muscles, the trace of hair, the ribs, drifting downward with inexorable purpose.
She touched him, the hard, wanting part of him, and listened with sensuous gratification to his sharp intake of breath. “I want you,” she said, using the same delicate, arousing touch on that most sensitive part of him. “I never said I didn’t. I just thought I shouldn’t.”
“Why?” he groaned.
She shook her head. “I can’t remember. Maybe it will come to me.”
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t remember. Just feel.” He reached for her, his hands strong and certain, cupping her full breasts, holding them, arousing them as he brought his mouth back.
She released him, reluctantly, sinking back on the sleeping bag and arching her back with a moan of pleasure. She didn’t know when she’d had such a barrage of delight assaulting her senses. The heat from the fire, the smell of wood smoke and whiskey, the flickering firelight and the softness of the old flannel sleeping bag beneath her, all combined to make her feel almost drunk with sensation. She opened her eyes to look over Sandy’s golden head, and outside the frosty window she could see snow swirling down. She closed her eyes again, feeling safe and warm in Sandy’s arms.
Except that safety and comfort were fast disappearing beneath his practiced mouth. Her breasts felt swollen, burning against his mouth as he suckled them, giving each lingering, devouring attention. His hand slid between her thighs, touching the heated center of her, and she whimpered slightly in the back of her throat, a sound of longing and instinctive wariness. She reached out a hand to stop him, to slow him down, to hurry him up, but he ignored it, sliding his mouth down her body, glancing off her flat stomach, down to the juncture of her thighs.
“Sandy!” she gasped, trying to jackknife up in sudden panic, but he simply pushed her back down on the padded floor, his hands cradling her hips.
“Objection noted and overruled,” he murmured, and his mouth found her.
She shivered in helpless delight, reaching down to push at his shoulders. Instead her nails dug in as she writhed beneath his practiced mouth, afraid to let go. Her body felt coated with a sheet of burning ice, her heart was pounding so hard and fast she thought it would explode from her chest, and all she knew was his mouth on her, his tongue, and a delight she wanted to fight and then suddenly no longer could, as wave after wave of sensation smashed over her.
Vaguely she could hear her voice, sobbing in helpless reaction. She could see him move up and cover her, sliding into her with a deep, sure, hard thrust that sent her spiraling out of control. The ice had melted, they were both covered with a film of sweat, and through the dizzying firelight she thought she could see their bodies, locked together in an undulating dance of love.
He reached down and held her hips, striving with unquestionable intent, and his mouth covered hers, his tongue in her mouth, a dual invasion. She was crying, she knew she was, she could feel her face wet with tears, but all she could feel was the man within her body, carrying her places she hadn’t even dreamed existed.
Suddenly his body tensed, and he lifted his head, his eyes glittering down into hers with a fierce intensity. She could feel the life, the love pumping into her, and then everything shattered around her, dissolving into a maelstrom of sensation and dark, dangerous release.
It went on forever, wave after wave of delight wringing a convulsive reaction from her exhausted body. Her mind had long ago stopped working, and for a moment she could feel herself slipping into some sort of alternative reality, a place of infinite rest. The last bit of tension left her body, and she sank back, floating for a bit, entirely at peace.
The pop and crackle of the fire brought her awake. Her eyes shot open, and she knew why she felt so warm and so lethargic. Sandy’s one hundred and eighty-some pounds were still stretched across her like a deadweight.
He must have felt her stir, for suddenly his muscles tightened, and he lifted his head from its place on her shoulder and looked down at her.
She waited for him to say something, but he just looked at her, an odd, indecipherable expression on his face. She could feel the dried tears on her face, and her body still thrummed with latent tremors. She might as well end these games, she thought briefly. There was no way he couldn’t know.
“Did I just die and go to heaven?” she whispered in a hoarse voice. “Or did I just faint?”
She managed to get a small, wary smile from him. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I was on cloud nine myself. Weren’t you with me?”
“Oh, is that where we were? I wasn’t sure,” she murmured lazily. He was still looking very serious, whereas she felt positively buoyant. She resisted the urge to tickle him, but just barely. Instead she brought her hands up over his back, stroking his still-damp skin.
His shiver of reaction brought a small, secret smile to her face. “Be careful,” he warned, not moving. “The next time might just kill us.”
She kept stroking, moving her sensitive fingertips down his sides. “It might be worth it.”
His hands reached up and cupped her face, holding her still. “We have plenty of time.”
“Do we?”
“We have the rest of our lives.”
“Do we?” She held her breath, waiting. She wasn’t sure for what. Not something as formal as a proposal. She wanted a promise, a commitment.
But Sandy only moved to lie beside her, and while the loss of his body heat and weight should have been a relief, she felt cold and lonely and bereft.
“Yes,” he said, drawing her into the shelter of his arms.
For a moment she wanted to fight,
but she was too weary, to sated to hold out for what she still needed. “Yes,” would have to be good enough. For now.
When she awoke she was very, very cold. Sometime during the night Sandy had managed to wrap one of the sleeping bags around them, and he must have stoked the fire at least once, but now, as an eerie gray-white dawn crept through the windows the coals were an orange-red memory and Jane could see her breath.
She was also naked beneath the sleeping bag, and even Sandy’s strong, warm body wasn’t enough to keep the chill at bay. She slid out from under the covers, but her accomplice, her lover, she reminded herself, didn’t stir. Scrambling across the room, it took her too long to find all her clothes. She settled for his sweater since he’d ended up using hers as an extra pillow, and she stuck her bare feet in his shoes as she headed for the great outdoors and the use of nature’s plumbing since the cottage water had been turned off for the winter.
The moment she stepped out onto the broad front porch she realized why the light was strange. It was just after dawn, and the entire world, or at least Newfield, Vermont, was covered with almost a foot of freshly fallen snow.
She stopped, daunted. “For crying out loud,” she said, her voice loud in the hushed stillness, “it’s only October!”
Not even the birds were awake. In the distance she could see wood smoke rising from some of the village houses and from the farms lying on the outer edges of the hills. They needed a little wood smoke of their own, she thought, biting her lip and trudging out into the snow for the convenient patch of woods. Not to mention some water for washing—maybe if she could wash away the remnants of last night she might be able to rid herself of her sudden vulnerability.
Sandy was blessed with the gift of heavy sleep. He barely stirred when she came back in and stoked the fire into a roaring inferno that threatened the safety of the old field-stone chimney. He only turned over and began snoring as she came back in with two buckets of lake water and began heating them. It wasn’t until she’d managed to wash, change into fresh clothes, and was just beginning to think about breakfast when his hand snagged her ankle as she tiptoed by, and he pulled her down on top of him.
“Don’t give me that look, partner,” Sandy muttered, flipping her on her back and looming over her.
“What look?”
“That wary, I-don’t-know-what-I’m-going-to-do-with-you-but-I-know-it-won’t-be-much kind of look,” he said.
She thought about it for a moment. “All right,” she said, reaching up and pulling his face down to hers. “I won’t.” And she kissed him, full on the mouth, a slow, lingering good-morning kiss that had him flipping up the edge of the sleeping bag and trying to pull her back in.
She escaped, rolling out of his reach before he had time to react. “You slept too late. And unless you want to spend another night in this icebox you’d better get dressed. It’s going to take some time to find Richard’s lab, and a fair amount of time to burn it.”
“I wouldn’t mind spending another night here,” he said quietly, sitting up and scratching his shaggy head. “If we could spend it the same way.”
“I don’t know if I’d survive another night like the last one,” she said, busying herself with the fire, afraid to look at him.
She didn’t hear him move, didn’t know he was behind her until she felt herself caught and turned, wrapped in his arms. “But what a way to go,” he whispered against her mouth.
It was sorely tempting. He wasn’t wearing any clothes, of course, and even without her glasses she could see how much he wanted her. There was nothing she wanted more than to sink back onto the pile of sleeping bags with him and wait for the snow to melt, but she couldn’t. She had to pay her debt to her brother, and for now her own considerable desires would have to wait.
Of course, she’d already plastered herself against his body and kissed him back with mindless enthusiasm. And she wasn’t saying a word as he was lowering her back onto the floor. Maybe family debts could wait a few hours, she thought. Maybe everything unimportant could wait a few hours. Maybe all that really mattered was Sandy.
She managed to find a half-frozen bottle of Deer Park water in the kitchen, so they were able to have coffee. Sandy had to make an extra trip to the lake for more wash water, and it took him far too long to find the dishes they’d stashed under the sofa. The sleeping bag was a mess, and Jane considered tossing it out, then changed her mind. When it was over, when she came back here alone, maybe she’d wrap herself up in it and remember. She didn’t have much faith in happily ever after.
The snow was melting to a freezing slush when they were finally ready to start their quest. In the light of day the Audi proved to be only slightly mired, and it took a push from Jane and clever driving from Sandy to get it back on the narrow driveway.
“Where to now?” Sandy asked, climbing out of the car and wincing as his soaked running shoes settled into the snow.
“We look for the lab. We can start with the boathouse. I didn’t see anything interesting when I went down to get water but I didn’t look all that carefully. Then we’ll head for the hay barns. Once the store opens we can get you a decent pair of boots and some kerosene.”
“Jane, we’re not going to burn the laboratory unless we have to.”
“We have to,” she said flatly, heading toward the lake. Her own boots were only ankle high, and the snow had already soaked them, but she was determined to ignore physical discomfort. She had already paid far too much attention to physical pleasure in the past twelve hours.
“Jane, arson is a crime.” He headed after her through the snow, cursing under his breath.
“So I’ll get a fire permit.”
“No one’s going to give you a fire permit on such short notice. Not to burn an existing structure,” he argued.
“Then I guess I’ll just have to break the law.”
“Jane, as your lawyer I have to tell you—”
She stopped, whirling around in the snow, and he almost barreled into her. “You’re not my lawyer, Sandy,” she said with great reasonableness. “You’re my partner in crime. If you don’t want to aid and abet this particular endeavor, go back to the cottage.”
He looked at her for a moment, and then he sighed. The cool crisp air brightened his eyes and brought color to his cheeks, and for one rash moment she was tempted to tackle him and roll in the snow with him.
A slow smile lit his face. “I can read your mind.”
“Don’t. I have work to do.”
Sandy sighed, resigned. “We have work to do. Lead on, Macduff. I’ll just have to do a hell of a job defending you.”
The boathouse held nothing but boats, fishing tackle, aging outboard motors and bird droppings. For years it had been a favorite nesting spot for swallows, and as far as Jane could see the population during the summer had only increased.
The hay barns held nothing but hay. The family leased them to a local farmer in return for keeping them reasonably intact, and they were full of neat bales, ready for winter feeding.
The garage, held nothing but broken, rusty tools that no one would ever possibly use. Richard’s brilliance hadn’t extended to earthly matters, and it was unlikely anyone had worked in the building since the early sixties.
Which left the icehouse. It was a small wood structure out by the ice pond, near the edge of the property adjoining the old Wilson place, and it hadn’t been used for anything other than kids’ games and teenage necking since electricity had come to Newfield in 1922 and people had discovered the wonders of refrigeration.
As long as Jane could remember the entryway had been a splintered pine door on one rusty iron hinge. They weren’t within twenty feet of the place before she noticed the heavy steel door, the steel locks. “Eureka,” she said softly, trudging through the woods at a faster pace.
Now that she bothered to look, she could see the new power box on the side of the building. Richard had had electricity and running water brought to the small, seemingly ramshackle structu
re, and the new roof was made of rustic-looking cedar shakes. Nice and inflammable, Jane thought.
Sandy stood there surveying the building. “Don’t bother asking me to pick the locks,” he said. “That time at Technocracies was merely a fluke.”
“That’s what I thought.” She made a halfhearted attempt at forcing the door, then stepped back. “We’ll head back to the store and get some kerosene.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “Have you bothered looking down? Someone’s been here recently. Someone with large feet and expensive boots, the kind you get at upscale New Jersey malls, not the Newfield General Store. I can think of only one other person left alive who has any stake in this place, and that’s Stephen Tremaine. If we don’t burn it now he’s going to win, and I’m damned if I’m going to let him. I’ll do it with you or without you, but I’m going to do it.”
He just stared at the building for a long, contemplative moment. “I guess you do it with me,” he said finally. “I just hope we can find me some better shoes at your general store.”
She moved fast, flinging her arms around his neck and smiling up at him. “Thank you,” she said, her voice soft in the morning air.
“Anytime,” he said, the wary expression almost leaving his eyes. “That’s what you hired me for.”
*
You ’re crazy to do this, Sandy told himself as he circled the old building, splashing kerosene against the foundations. Arson was a felony, and it would take all his powers of persuasion to get her off. Hell, he was aiding and abetting—maybe he wouldn’t even be able to defend her, he’d be standing trial alongside her.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t own the place—she was Richard Dexter’s sole heir. And it wasn’t as if she was going to make an insurance claim. The blaze would provide no danger to other structures—the slowly melting snow would keep the fire from spreading, and the nearest structure was an old white farmhouse barely visible through the woods. A young widow lived there with her twin sons, Jane said. Doubtless they kept her too busy to even look out her windows, much less notice a suspicious fire.
