Til Death Do Us Part

by Beverly Barton

  Maybe she should put on some clothes. The lace teddy and robe that she’d intended wearing to torment Roarke lay on the vanity stool in the bathroom. She had other teddies. She could slip into one of them. No, Roarke had said for her to stay put. When he emerged from his spider annihilation mission, she would be right here, waiting for him.

  In retrospect, things didn’t seem as scary as they had just a few minutes ago when she’d been totally naked and surrounded by a troop of three-eighths-of-an-inch assassins. Odd, she thought, how completely she’d come to count on Simon Roarke, how totally she trusted him to protect her.

  Even though she’d been fortunate enough to have been nurtured, loved and adored by Aunt Beatrice and Pearl and trained for success by a loving uncle George, Cleo had always possessed an independent streak. A need to take care of herself. A determination to do things without assistance, and to do them her own way. And yet here she was, relying on someone else—a man who, although he was her husband, was practically a stranger. But he didn’t seem like a stranger. After less than two weeks’ acquaintance, she had no doubts that she could trust Roarke with her life. And not simply because he was her employee, but because he was the kind of man who instinctively took care of his own.

  “Mission accomplished.” Roarke emerged from the bathroom like a conquering hero, having vanquished the foe. “We’ll get an exterminator in first thing tomorrow, strictly as a safety precaution. I’m certain there’s not a spider left alive. And Pearl’s going to have a job straightening up the mess I made in there.”

  Cleo found that she’d lost her voice when she tried to speak, to verbally respond to Roarke. He stood there, his hair slightly mussed and damp, and grinned at her. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, enough so she could see his moist, curling chest hair. And his sex bulged against his jeans.

  She rose up off the bed, mesmerized by the power radiating from Roarke and urged into action by her own feminine needs. With the quilt draped around her shoulders, she clutched the edges together across her chest. She stared at him, wanting to ask him to make love to her, but her voice was mute. Only her eyes spoke for her.

  Roarke halted, stopped dead in his tracks by the look in Cleo’s warm green eyes. Was he reading her right? Was she asking for what he thought she was? Or had he let his own desperate need for her influence his perception? “Cleo?” Tell me, dammit! Say the words, honey. I want to hear you ask.

  With her gaze fixed on Roarke, she took several tentative steps toward him. The sound of her rapidly pumping heart roared in her ears. She felt hot and moist, and ached unbearably. All she knew was that she wanted Roarke. No, she needed him. Now.

  Boldly, she released her grip on the quilt and allowed it to drop from her shoulders and slide down her body, forming a cotton mound on the floor. She stood before him, naked, unashamed and painfully aroused. Being a wanton seductress was something new for her. But then, wanting a man the way she wanted Roarke was also a new experience.

  “Ah, Cleo Belle.” Roarke tensed, every muscle tightening, every nerve fully alert. His sex grew hard and heavy. “Come here.” He didn’t open his arms, he simply stood unmoving, waiting for her to obey his command.

  They kept their eyes focused on each other, their gazes locked. Cleo walked toward him, slowly, surely. And all the while she wondered if her weak legs could make the short journey. When she reached him, she broke eye contact, lowering her head shyly, needing for Roarke to make the next move. She had come this far, done this much. Now it was time for him to take charge.

  “Let me look at you,” he said.

  Cleo shivered. Her breasts ached, needing his touch to bring them relief.

  His gaze traveled over her, from the cap of red silk covering her head to the triangle of red fluff at the apex between her thighs. Small and delicately made, her skin like porcelain, Cleo possessed a perfect, petite body.

  His instincts told him that she’d never done anything like this before, never served herself up on a silver platter, her body an offering to a man’s desire.

  “You’re lovely,” he told her. “The loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Throbbing, tingling, aching sensations created turmoil inside her. She didn’t know how much longer she could stand here without crumbling, without crying out, without begging him to end her agony.

  “Undress me,” he said, and lifted her hands to his chest.

  With unsteady fingers she finished unbuttoning his shirt and spread it apart. Gasping, she shut her eyes. The sight of his hairy, muscled chest took her breath away. She ran her hand over his chest, loving the feel. Tangling her fingers in the thatch of hair, she pressed her cheek against his chest and breathed in the rich, earthy aroma of an aroused man. Her man. Her husband.

  She traced the thick scar tissue on the right side of his chest with her fingertips. “How did you get these?”

  “Bullets. It happened on an assignment last year. I almost died.”

  “Oh.” Lowering her head, she kissed his scars.

  Threading his fingers through her hair, he grasped her head. “Finish the job, honey.” Roarke’s voice was thick with desire. “Undress me.”

  Opening her eyes and lifting her head, Cleo stared up at him. He was so tall he towered over her. He released her hair. She slipped the shirt down his shoulders, over his arms and let it drop to the floor. She stared at his belt buckle. She could do this. She had to do this. Roarke wasn’t going to help her. He intended to make her strip him.

  Struggling several minutes with the buckle, she finally undid it. Then she unsnapped and unzipped his jeans. His sex bulged against the exposed V of his cotton underwear. She gripped his hips and tugged on his jeans, pulling them down. When they reached his ankles, the jeans hung on his feet. Kneeling before him, Cleo unlaced his athletic shoes. Roarke kicked them off one at a time, then held up his left foot. She removed his sock, then the other when he lifted his right foot.

  She glanced up the long length of his legs. Powerful, hairy legs. When she swayed forward, resting her head against him, Roarke reached down and lifted her hands to the elastic waistband of his briefs. Staying on her knees, she tugged his underwear over his hips, over his straining sex and down his legs. Roarke stepped out of his briefs and stood there before her, totally naked, fully erect and powerfully male.

  Placing his hands under her armpits, he lifted her until her mouth was almost touching him intimately. Her warm breath felt like flames against his engorged shaft. She placed her lips on him, the first kiss hesitant, the next and then the next more eager, as she kissed him from root to tip and back again.

  When he could no longer bear her moist, hot caresses, he grasped her head in both hands and drew her sweet mouth away from him. Groaning, the sound a ravaged statement of need, he threaded his fingers through her hair. When she looked up at him, her face flushed, her eyes glazed with passion and her damp lips slightly parted, Roarke thought he would explode.

  He lifted her to her feet, his breath ragged, his heart thundering like a wild, racing stallion. Pulling her up to him and off her feet, he pressed his sex against her belly, her breasts against his chest. Then he devoured her mouth in a kiss that robbed her of her breath and of what little sense she had left.

  She flung her arms around him, taking his kisses and returning them full measure. Clutching her buttocks in his big hands, he crushed her mound against his sex. She cried out. He moaned.

  “Tell me, Cleo. Tell me and I’ll put us both out of our misery.”

  “I want you,” she said breathlessly. “Make love to me. Please.”

  Gathering her up and into his arms, he carried her to the bed and laid her in the center, then came down on top of her. He was hard and heavy and big. So very big. He made her feel tiny and helpless against his strength.

  He kissed her savagely, conquering her mouth with his thrusting tongue. Moving hastily on to new territory, he attacked her breasts with tender fierceness, squeezing them gently as he lifted them. He pinched one puckere
d point, then the other. She moaned and writhed beneath him. Lowering his mouth, he sucked greedily, moving from one begging nipple to the other.

  While his mouth ravaged her breasts, he stroked her belly, then moved his hand downward, probing the notch of her legs. When he touched her intimately, her hips rose off the bed. He slipped his hand between her thighs, parting them, then inserted his fingers into the damp, hot tightness. She buckled, her body undulating, pleading for his possession.

  “Now, Simon. Now!” She gripped his buttocks, forcing him closer.

  “Yes, Cleo. Now.” His tongue plunged into her mouth the exact moment he removed his hand and thrust into her waiting warmth with his hardness.

  Her body sheathed his, surrounding him snugly within a hot, fluid grip. She was as ready for this mating as he. As mindless with passion. As desperate with need.

  He knew he couldn’t make it last, for either of them. They were both too hungry, too starved for satisfaction. He moved in and out, increasing the pace with each lunge.

  She gasped loudly. Her swollen femininity clenched him tightly. And then she cried out her release. Furious. Overwhelming. Earth-shattering. The spasms shook her body.

  Roarke moved faster, his thrusts harder and deeper. And while she still quivered with the aftershocks of her release, he spilled himself into her. He shuddered, then his body jerked several times as it emptied the last drops of completion. Groaning with satisfaction, he stared down at Cleo, and the sight of her lying beneath him, so blissfully fulfilled, stirred his body.

  Damn, he barely had the energy to breathe. He sure as hell wasn’t ready for another wild ride. Not this soon. But his body was telling him that it wanted more. Hey, you horny bastard, don’t you know how old we are? he asked the part of his anatomy over which he had no control. We’re nearly forty. So act your age, will you?

  Sliding off Cleo and onto his side, he brought her into his embrace and placed soft kisses all over her face.

  “You’ve just proven an old adage,” Roarke said.

  “What old adage is that?” Snuggling against him, she laid her hand over his belly and caressed the line of dark hair leading down to his manhood.

  Easing his hand between her legs, he petted her intimately and savored her small, breathless gasp. “The old adage that dynamite comes in small packages,” he told her. “You, my little darling, are pure dynamite.”

  “Oh, that old adage,” she said, moving her hand slowly downward until she encountered his renewed arousal. “I don’t disagree entirely, but—” circling him, she stroked him intimately and grinned when he drew in a sharp breath “—I happen to know, firsthand, that a certain type of dynamite comes in a big package.”

  The combination of her seductive words and her talented hand brought Roarke’s manhood to full readiness. He delved his fingers into her, manipulating her feminine core. She moaned her pleasure.

  “You know I want you again, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And you want me, too.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You aren’t too sore from the first time, are you?”

  “No, Simon, I’m not too sore.”

  Without saying another word, he lifted her on top of him, placing her gently, allowing her to make the final plunge that would completely unite them. She straddled him as if he were that untamed stallion Pearl had compared him to. And the moment she brought him totally inside, he lifted his hips and hoisted himself to the hilt. With his hands guiding her and his lips feasting on her breasts, Roarke encouraged her wild ride. Her tempestuous release hurled him over the edge into savage fulfillment.

  She fell on top of him, their bodies bonded with perspiration and satiation. He stroked her hair, her neck, her back and her buttocks. They fell asleep with his big, dark hand cupping her hip as his body cushioned hers.

  ROARKE AWOKE SUDDENLY, his heart racing at breakneck speed. Damn, he’d been dreaming. Just dreaming. Cleo was all right. She lay snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his belly. He breathed a sigh of relief. She was safe. Thank God. Easing his arms around her gently, trying not to wake her, he pulled her into his embrace. Her naked body was warm and compliant, and the very feel of her skin against his aroused him. He longed to make love to her again. She had been as hot and wild as he’d hoped she would be, giving herself completely, holding nothing back. And she had tempted him beyond all reason to give equally to her. But both times, in the end, he had held back, afraid to allow himself the freedom to experience the emotions clamoring for release.

  No matter how much he wanted Cleo and she him, their time together was limited. Theirs was not a love match, not a lifetime commitment. She might cling to him passionately, giving herself to him as he knew she’d never given herself to anyone else, but nothing could change the fact that he was her employee. She’d hired him for three reasons—to protect her, to keep McNamara Industries a family-run operation…and to impregnate her. Once he’d served his purpose, his job would end and they’d both go their separate ways.

  Being Cleo’s husband had certain benefits, the least of which was being her lover, and he might be tempted to hang around after the job ended, if the circumstances were different. But they weren’t. Once she told him she was pregnant, he’d make plans to leave. Surely by that time they would have discovered who was trying to harm Cleo and sabotage McNamara’s.

  But what if he’d gotten her pregnant tonight? They had made passionate love twice. Pregnancy was a possibility.

  Shimmery moonlight shone in through the French doors and floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the room with a soft, pale light. He looked at the woman in his arms, the strands of her short hair shiny cinnamon threads against his hard, leather-brown shoulder.

  If she was pregnant—this soon—he couldn’t leave her and her baby unprotected. But that didn’t mean he would have to stay. It wasn’t as if he was indispensable. He could easily turn his bodyguard duties over to Morgan Kane, or keep Kane on the investigation and bring in Gabriel Hawk. But could he really leave Cleo’s protection to another man, no matter how well-trained that man was? No, of course he couldn’t. Not after tonight. Tonight Cleo had become his, in every sense of the word. He’d just have to hope that he hadn’t impregnated her already. Hanging around to watch her grow bigger with his child every day hadn’t been part of their bargain. He’d made it perfectly clear that this child would be hers and hers alone.

  He’d already been given one chance at fatherhood and he’d screwed up royally. Cleo’s child deserved better. And so did Cleo. She deserved a man capable of loving her and committing himself to her for the rest of their lives. He wasn’t that man. He knew himself too well. Inside, where it really counted, he was a burned-out shell. The fire of guilt and remorse and self-hatred had gutted his soul years ago. That fire had begun the day he’d received the news that Laurie had died. It had blazed inside him at his little girl’s funeral. And the day he’d said goodbye to Hope at the private mental hospital where she’d been committed, that internal fire had raged. Day by day, week by week, year by year, the inferno had slowly destroyed him, destroyed any ability he’d ever had to love.

  Cleo roused, opening her eyes and looking up at Roarke with tenderness. She smiled.

  “You’re awake,” she said. “Couldn’t you sleep?”

  “I slept like the dead for several hours after…” Pausing, he stroked her cheek. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Whoever is playing these deadly games is going to lose. I’ll see to it.”

  Stretching far enough for her lips to reach his, she kissed him, then pulled away. “I know you will.” Bracing her elbow on the bed, she supported the side of her face with her hand and gazed adoringly at Roarke. “We both know that someone deliberately planted those spiders in the bathroom.”

  “Yeah. And tomorrow I’ll have to call the local authorities. We’ll have to bring them in on this and on the problems at McNamara Industries.” He l
iked the way she looked at him, her eyes filled with tenderness and just a hint of passion. He supposed a lot of women got mellow after sex, and some, like Cleo, would get sentimental. He usually didn’t hang around long enough to find out. He hadn’t slept the night through in a woman’s bed in a long, long time.

  “This is just the beginning, isn’t it? If I continue refusing to sell McNamara’s, my life will remain in danger and the problems at the plant will only escalate.”

  “If you’re having second thoughts, Boss Lady, now’s the time to say so.”

  “No second thoughts,” she said. “No second thoughts about any of my decisions.”

  He understood her meaning. She was telling him that she wasn’t sorry she’d hired him as her bodyguard and her husband. Right now, he was glad Cleo McNamara had walked into his office and made him a proposition he couldn’t refuse. But he knew that in a few months, when this job ended and he left River Bend, he would have second thoughts. For the rest of his life, he would wonder if he’d done the right thing, fathering a child and then deserting it.

  He had deserted a child once before, giving his military career greater precedence in his life than he’d given his daughter’s welfare. But this time, he was thinking of the child first, knowing that the best thing he could do for Cleo’s future baby was to get out of its life and stay out.

  “What’s wrong?” Cleo asked. “You seem to be a million miles away.”

  “Fifteen years in the past.” He’d spoken before he’d thought, but covered his slip by saying, “I was just considering how much my life has changed over the years. I’ve gone from a gung ho young soldier to a middle-aged warhorse who wants to retire to a farm somewhere.”