A Treasure Worth Seeking

by Sandra Brown

  The moment was so static with tension and suppressed sexual longing that both of them trembled under the assault of emotion. Each vividly remembered an incident better forgotten, but more treasured for its prohibitive, secretive nature.

  Finally Lance tore his eyes away from her face and cursed under his breath as he went back to the desk and flopped down in the chair. “You can start now by leaving me alone. I’ve got work to do.”

  She didn’t answer him, but left the room. Had she turned around, she couldn’t have missed the painful longing nakedly revealed in his eyes as they followed her.

  * * *

  It was uncannily easy for her to adjust to the routine of the house. She used the telephone extension in Melanie’s bedroom to check in with Spotlight as she had promised to do.

  “Good afternoon, Spotlight,” the bright voice answered.

  Erin laughed. “I’d forgotten the time difference. It is afternoon in Houston, isn’t it?”

  “Hi there, stranger,” Betty, her secretary, chortled. “Did you find who you were looking for?” she asked excitedly.

  Even before Lance had intimated that she shouldn’t discuss Ken’s disappearance with anyone, she had decided not to burden her friends with her troubles. She answered, “Yes, I found him. Or at least I found his wife who has welcomed me with open arms. Ken is out of town for a few days.”

  “You mean he doesn’t even know yet?!”

  “No. We want to surprise him.” Erin quickly changed the subject. “How are things there? Any major catastrophes I should know about?”

  “No. Only a few minor ones we’ve managed to stumble through. You relax and have a good time.”

  “Betty, I may be here longer than I had anticipated. I expect you and the others to run the business as if I were there. I’m confident you can do it. But if you have any questions or anything out of the ordinary comes up, call me.”

  Betty paused for a moment before asking, “Are you sure everything’s all right?”

  “Yes. Positive,” Erin lied. She gave Betty Melanie’s telephone number and, after asking about the weather and everyone’s health, hung up.

  Unpacking her bags in the guest bedroom, she asked herself again if she was doing the right thing. Should she get back to her business and her life in Houston and forget about everything that had happened since her arrival in San Francisco?

  No, she shook her head. She couldn’t desert her brother and Melanie now that she had just found them. She had made a commitment to her sister-in-law and intended to uphold it no matter what unpleasantness she faced because of it, including Lance Barrett.

  The rest of the afternoon she and Melanie spent in each other’s company, talking for hours about Ken. Melanie knew quite a lot about his life before he met her and Erin realized that they must have a very happy marriage. But that was incongruous with the fact that he had stolen the money and abandoned her without a word. It was too complicated for her to figure out.

  They strolled around the patio and backyard. Melanie was justifiably proud of her flower garden which she cultivated diligently. She named every shrub for Erin, explaining when she pruned, when she fertilized, how often she watered. Erin remarked that it must be a showplace in the spring when everything was blooming, and Melanie beamed happily.

  It was amazing to Erin that the young woman, who had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, would take such pleasure in cooking, keeping her house and yard, and shun her parents’ life-style of country clubs and parties.

  For dinner that night, Melanie baked a delicious quiche which they ate at the table in the kitchen. Lance and Mike had graciously declined her invitation to join them though she protested that she had prepared too much food for only two people.

  Erin didn’t see Lance again until late the following morning, and then it was quite by accident. She was having difficulty zipping up the back of the blue wool jersey dress she had put on. The soft fabric had gotten caught in the teeth of the zipper and no matter which way she tried to move it, the zipper wouldn’t budge. She was on her way to ask Melanie for assistance when she bumped into Lance as she stepped out into the hallway.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed in embarrassed surprise and backed against the wall, aware that her back was exposed.

  “Hi,” he said, as unsettled by their abrupt meeting as she was.

  “Hi.”

  “I, uh, came up here to replace a light bulb for Mrs. Lyman.”

  “Oh.” Erin felt imbecilic standing with her back against the wall that way, but she couldn’t move without grabbing the shoulders of her dress and giving away her predicament. She was afraid it would slip down her arms.

  “She’s down in the kitchen,” Lance said irrelevantly. Puzzlement was creasing the vertical line between his brows.

  “I’ll catch up with her down there. With your permission, she and I would like to go out for a while this afternoon. She wants to take me to Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  “You want to go sightseeing?” he asked, scoffing.

  “No I don’t!” she bristled. “But Melanie wants to take me. It will do her good to get out of this gloomy house, the atmosphere of which you don’t improve one bit.”

  “I’m not here in the capacity of court jester. Or have you forgotten my very serious reason for being here?”

  Immediately she regretted her outburst. He must have a million details on his mind with the red telephone in the living room continually ringing. He didn’t need her to contribute to his worries. “No. Of course I haven’t forgotten,” she said humbly. “Is it all right if we go?”

  “Yes,” he sighed resignedly.

  She looked up at him and was held by the magnetism of his eyes as they stared down into hers. A fleeting impulse to reach up and investigate the cleft in his chin was stifled just in time. But there was no calming the frantic beating of her heart. She turned away quickly and took one step before the cool air on her back reminded her of the contrary zipper. She slammed into the wall again.

  “What in the hell is the matter with you?” he asked.

  There was no use pleading ignorance. She’d just as well explain why she was behaving like such a ninny. He would stand there all day until she did. “I’m having trouble with my zipper. I was about to ask Melanie to help me.”

  Instantly a grin tilted the corner of his mouth. He smiled lazily and leaned his shoulder against the wall only inches from her. His voice was seductive as he drawled, “She’s busy. I, on the other hand, am available, willing, and able.”

  “No—”

  “Let’s see what the problem is.” Before she could resist, he had turned her around. She flushed hotly when she knew that her whole back was revealed to him. The dress was fully lined, so she wasn’t wearing a slip. The skin of her back was naked except for the thin satin strap of her bra. The zipper started in the middle of her hips, covered only by sheer pantyhose.

  She shivered when she felt him slide his hands inside the dress and place them on the curve of her hips just below her waist. His fingers were warm as they pressed into her skin.

  For a long moment neither of them moved, and there was silence except for the pounding of their hearts which each was certain the other could hear. At first Erin thought she was imagining the sensuous movements of his fingers, but they became very real when she felt them on the bare skin of her stomach. One hand rested on her rib cage, close… close… agonizingly close to her breast. The other slipped under the waistband of her pantyhose and investigated her navel with gentle fingers.

  Don’t touch her, Lance commanded himself, but his hands refused to obey. This is insanity. Her fiancé is as rich as Croesus and you—But God, she felt wonderful. Don’t torture yourself this way. Reluctantly he returned his hands to their original position before their enrapturing foray.

  “Move back just a little,” he said huskily. She took two small steps backward and could feel his fumbling movements as he tried to extricate the fine material from the zipper. Finally she felt it co
me free.

  His fingers seemed disinclined to pull the zipper upward and close the dress over her back. “Thank you,” she muttered quickly when she knew he had reached the top.

  “Just a minute,” he said, placing restraining hands on her shoulders. “There’s a doodad up here.” He pulled her closer to him and leaned down over the back of her neck to better see the tiny hook and the thread eye in which to insert it.

  His fingers were warm against her neck and his fragrant breath stirred the curls at the back of her head. He had already accomplished the task of fastening the hook, but she didn’t move away.

  He encircled her slender throat with the fingers of both hands and did something hypnotic to the base of her neck with his thumbs. She swayed slightly before surrendering to the temptation and leaning into him. Unconsciously, she adjusted her bottom against his hips. Hard thighs pressed into the backs of her legs.

  His lips caressed her ear as he spoke. “Do you always smell so delectable?” One hand slipped under her arm, moved around her waist, and flattened on her stomach, almost covering it completely. With a slow, steady, inexorable pressure, he drew her tighter against him.

  She felt rather than heard his ragged breathing at the same time as she was aware of a powerful stirring against her. Oh, God, she thought, I shouldn’t let—

  “Erin, aren’t you ready yet?” Melanie called shrilly from downstairs.

  Erin and Lance jumped apart. Erin tried to compose herself as she answered unevenly, “I… yes, I’ll be right down.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait in the car,” Melanie shouted back.

  Color stained Erin’s cheeks and she was unable to meet Lance’s eyes as she mumbled to the carpet, “Thank you.”

  Conspiratorially he leaned down, placed his lips against her ear, and whispered, “It was my pleasure.”

  She all but ran down the stairs.

  * * *

  Any other time, Erin would have delighted in the pulsating, cosmopolitan excitement of Fisherman’s Wharf. She and Melanie strolled along the piers taking in the unique sights, sounds, and smells. Melanie pointed out the major points of interest. Erin shuddered when she saw the deserted island of Alcatraz. Its bleak, ominous walls rose out of the blue water of the bay like some gruesome, concrete leviathan. The Golden Gate Bridge, even at this distance, was awesome in its proportions. Melanie rattled off statistics about it like a tour guide.

  They succumbed to the tantalizing smells of the sidewalk vendors and bought paper cups of shrimp fresh out of the vats of seasoned boiling water. They ate hungrily, decided they hadn’t had enough, and ordered another serving each. They bemoaned their overindulgence, but it had just begun.

  Melanie practically dragged Erin up the steep sidewalk to Ghirardelli Square. They strolled through the picturesque shops and, though they were still full from the shrimp, treated themselves to a hot fudge sundae at the Old Chocolate Manufactory.

  Erin could barely breathe, she felt so stuffed. Too many more weeks in San Francisco and she’d return home roly-poly.

  “Do you think I should go back and buy that dress?” Melanie asked as she scooped up the last syrupy spoonful of her sundae. Erin had persuaded her to try on a dress that had caught her eye in one of the boutiques they had shopped in.

  “I think it was made for you, my dear,” Erin parroted the sales clerk in a high falsetto voice, and they were reduced to a fit of giggles.

  “Okay,” Melanie said, standing up from the small round table in Ghirardelli’s. “I’ll go get it. You talked me into it.”

  They traipsed back through the throng of shoppers and sightseers toward the boutique. A company of sidewalk comedians caught Erin’s attention and she said to Melanie, “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait out here for you and watch the performance.”

  “Sure. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Melanie said before being swallowed up by the crowd.

  Erin was so engrossed in the talented antics of the performers that she didn’t really notice the man standing next to her before he said, “They’re quite good, aren’t they?”

  She looked up into a friendly face, unmistakably British with its ruddy complexion. “Yes they are,” she said, smiling.

  “Are you a native of San Francisco?” he asked conversationally in his clipped, short phrases.

  “No. I live in Houston, Texas. You are apparently a tourist just as I am,” she said.

  He chuckled. “I plead guilty. We’re frightfully obvious, I’m afraid.”

  “Where do you live?” Erin asked him.

  “Kent. Actually this is my second trip to the… colonies.” He grinned engagingly, and Erin laughed. “This is my first trip to California, however, and I—”

  He was rudely interrupted when someone elbowed his way between them and grasped Erin’s arm painfully. “Excuse us, old chap,” Lance said in a voice that was anything but neighborly.

  Erin didn’t have time to wish the English gentleman a pleasant trip before Lance dragged her away through the crowd. She murmured apologies as they shoved through the press, noticing that several people gave them withering looks. Lance’s actions weren’t exactly mannerly, but he seemed impervious to the crowd and his rudeness.

  When he had gotten her out of the flow of traffic, he demanded angrily, “Where the hell have you been? Where is Mrs. Lyman? Who the hell was that man you were talking to?” With each question, the pressure on her arm increased until she almost cried out in pain.

  “I’m not telling you one damn thing until you let go of my arm,” she said.

  He looked down at the tight fist gripping her upper arm as if realizing for the first time that he even had a hold on her. He released her immediately. “All right,” he barked, “where is Mrs. Lyman?”

  “She’s in a boutique buying a dress,” Erin explained as she rubbed her arm in an effort to restore its circulation. “She tried it on earlier and went back just now to pick it up. I was waiting for her out here.”

  “Who was the man you were having so much fun with?” His eyes were as cold as his tone of voice.

  Erin’s dark eyes flashed in vexation as she cried, “I don’t know! He was just a man, a very friendly, nice man. Someone you couldn’t identify with,” she added scathingly.

  “You can cut the sarcasm, Miss O’Shea. My rudeness is a product of worry. You were gone for hours! Then when Clark called and said he’d lost you in the crowd—”

  “You had us followed!?” she asked incredulously. “Of all the—”

  “For Mrs. Lyman’s protection only.”

  “Like hell.” Erin saw Melanie coming toward them chatting to a man who was as nondescript as Mike. He was looking chagrined as they walked up. “I found her,” he told Lance unnecessarily.

  “Yeah. Thanks,” Lance said dryly. Erin felt sorry for the young man when she saw the censure in Lance’s eyes.

  Melanie seemed oblivious to the tension as the foursome wound their way back to Erin’s car. “We’re parked across the street. We’ll follow you home,” Lance said as he held the driver’s door open for her.

  “Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir.” She saluted him mockingly and found smug satisfaction in the tight, angry lines on his face as he slammed the car door.

  She sought further revenge by asking Melanie to direct her on the longest route home. It included Lombard Street, the crookedest street in the world, having seven curves in one block. The Mercedes took them with ease. The car Lance was riding in didn’t fare as well.

  * * *

  With the first twinges of an upset stomach, Erin thought she must be paying for her eating binge that afternoon. Her altercation with Lance surely hadn’t done her digestion any good. She went to bed pleading fatigue and didn’t mention her stomachache to Melanie.

  She settled down in bed and tried to sleep, but tossed restlessly before finally dozing off. Sometime after midnight she was awakened by severe stomach cramps. Every muscle in her body contracted against them and sweat broke out of every pore.

  H
er limbs felt weighted down with lead as she threw back the covers and staggered toward the bathroom. She barely had time to switch on the light and lift the cover of the commode before she was violently ill.

  In her life she couldn’t remember having an attack of nausea like this. She retched for what seemed like an endless amount of time. With each spasm, the cramping in her intestines took her breath away. Intense heat snaked up her spine, washed over her neck and head, penetrated her brain, and burned in her ears. Then she would shiver with cold. A clammy sweat bathed her body, making her nightgown cling to her like damp seaweed.

  At last, when she felt like she had been turned inside out, she washed her face in the lavatory and, unable to stand upright, virtually crawled back to the bed. She collapsed on it, relieved that whatever had made her so sick had been expelled.

  That wasn’t the case, however. She was alarmed when only a few minutes later, she felt her stomach churning again. She bumped against the door in her dash to the bathroom, and it crashed into the wall. She was still in the throes of nausea when she realized that Melanie was standing there watching her, looking white-faced and terrified.

  When Erin was able to look up, Melanie was gone. Once again she stumbled toward the bed and fell across it, exhausted and aching. She jerked in startled reaction when the door to her bedroom was flung open and Lance’s silhouette filled the doorjamb. His eyes were wild, his hair was mussed, and he was shirtless. A pair of jeans had been hastily pulled on. They were zipped, but not snapped. Running shoes were on his feet, but the laces hung untied on the floor. Melanie cowered behind him, tremulous and frightened in her pink quilted robe.

  Lance came quickly to the bedside and leaned over Erin, placing a palm against her forehead. His face had lost its guarded look and his eyes traveled over her body anxiously looking for signs of injury or pain.

  “Erin? What’s the matter?” This couldn’t be Lance. It was someone who looked like him. Lance never sounded this gentle and kind. He had called her Erin, not Miss O’Shea. She loved the way he said her name. What had he asked her?