by Anne Stuart
“You’re crazy,” she said, but her voice shook.
He considered dropping her on the bed. He didn’t want to—a dangerous reluctance he was willing to acknowledge, even as he deplored it. He didn’t want to let go of her at all, but he knew the longer he cradled her against his body, the harder it would be. In more ways than one.
He put her down, gently enough, and took a step back, away from her. She made the very grave mistake of not staying put. She scrambled off the bed in a panic, the beer she’d drunk making her awkward. It was child’s play to catch her by the door, pulling her back around, against him. Child’s play to look down into her frightened, upturned face, and exert the last little bit of pressure.
“Crazy?” he replied in a low, menacing drawl. “I don’t think so. I don’t know whose baby that is that you’ve been playing devoted mother to, but it’s not yours. You didn’t give birth a month ago. I don’t think you’ve ever been pregnant in your life.”
“What would you know about it?” she demanded furiously. Another mistake on her part.
It was a simple enough matter to push his hand up under the loose white T-shirt she wore, to cover her small, perfect breast. She tried to jerk away in shock, but he held her tightly, allowing no escape. And then she held very still, looking up at him in mute despair, as his hand cupped her breast and the peak hardened against his palm. “I watched you in the shower, remember?” he taunted her in a low voice. “Babies wreak havoc on a body, especially one as small and slight as yours. Your breasts would sag, whether you were nursing him or not. The skin on your stomach would be loose, your waist would be thick, your stamina would be shot to hell. I don’t know whose baby you’ve been cooing over, but it’s not yours.”
“You’re crazy,” she said again. “Timothy is mine and Billy Morrissey’s, and you can’t prove otherwise.”
“Oh, yeah? What color were Billy’s eyes?”
Her hesitation was so imperceptible he found he was impressed. “Hazel.”
“Wrong. It was a pretty safe guess, though, I’ll grant you that. Billy’s eyes were a bright, bright blue. You have blue eyes yourself, princess. The baby’s eyes are already turning brown.”
He pulled her a little closer against him. He knew he ought to release her breast, but the feel of its small, mounded warmth against his palm, the hard nub of her nipple, the way she shivered in his arms, were all too delicious to resist. He was very hard, and he didn’t mind her knowing that as well as she stood plastered up against him. There was no way she could miss it, and yet she still seemed slightly disoriented, confused by him and her own body. Maybe those two beers had had an even greater effect on her than he’d originally thought.
“Whose baby?” he said again, softer now, arching her back slightly. “Does Caterina Morrissey have brown eyes?”
Her body slumped in defeat. Against his. “She had brown eyes,” she said in a low voice. “She’s dead.”
“I thought so. But Timothy was hers?”
She nodded reluctantly. “She died soon after he was born. It was a massive infection—there was nothing I could do. I could only promise that I would make sure Timothy got safely out of this wretched country.”
Release her, he told himself. He loosened his grip marginally, but she made no effort to escape. He considered whether he could flatter himself into thinking she was starting to like it, but he didn’t think so. She was simply too dazed to realize her compromising position.
If he had a speck of decency he’d let her go. She was ready to spill—he didn’t need to use any sort of physical intimidation on her anymore to pry the truth from her. But the feel of her warm, smooth skin beneath his hand was irresistible. He wanted to cup the other breast, as well. He wanted to lean down and taste it.
“So he really is Billy’s baby. His grandparents will be pleased to hear that. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“I did. You didn’t believe me.”
He nodded, remembering. “So you did. I guess I’m a little too used to liars. So who are you, if you’re not Caterina Morrissey? And how did you end up at that deserted convent?”
Sudden awareness darkened her eyes as she realized her position, plastered up against him, his hand on breast. She wrenched herself away and he let her go, disguising his unwillingness. She sat back on the bed, keeping her face averted, but he could see the unexpected color on her cheekbones. Just as he recognized her rushed breathing, and her nipples pressing against the thin cotton of the white T-shirt. Her ladyship was turned on, and she either didn’t know it or didn’t like it. Maybe a combination of the two.
“I told you, I was a friend of Caterina’s. My name really is Carlie. Short for Caroline. Caroline Forrest.”
“How did you and Caterina become friends? She tended to fly with a pretty rich crowd. And what were you doing at that convent?”
“I was taking care of her.”
“Why?”
She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide and slightly dazed. She was about to lie to him. He recognized that fact with a combination of irritation and triumph. If she continued to lie, then all bets were off. There was no reason he should behave himself if she continued to lie.
“Because no one else would,” she said finally, and he could almost believe her. Almost. “All the nuns had left. I…I’ve known Caterina for years. We were in school together, in France, and we used to have fun together. She wrote me a few months ago and asked me to come visit. I assumed we were going to continue to party when I came to San Pablo.”
“You picked a lousy time for a vacation. Don’t you read the newspapers? Don’t you have the faintest idea of the political upheaval around here?” He kept his voice cold and unsympathetic.
“There’s political unrest everywhere,” she said with a brave attempt at a shrug. He was impressed. If he didn’t already have reason to distrust her he would have believed that shrug. She looked up at him defiantly, and she would have convinced most people she was simply a spoiled party girl, unexpectedly caught in the middle of a revolution.
It would be easier on him if he did believe it. He could take full advantage of that small, trim body that had such a surprisingly potent effect on his, and if she was who she said she was, she’d be more than agreeable. This was good news - there was no reason to hold off touching her.
Dutchy had been scared off. Morales and his men were well out of reach, at least for now, the baby was safe and the door was locked. He looked at her, taking in the brave defiance in her pale mouth, and pulled the gun out of his waistband.
Her eyes followed that gun, nervously. She’d had a bad experience with guns in her life, he could tell that much. If he were a real bastard he could use that gun to make her tell him the truth this time. Not that half-baked lie of French finishing schools and the like.
But he put the gun down on the table beside the bed, close enough so he could reach it if someone decided to interrupt them, and then moved closer to her. Her eyes were at the level of his zipper.
“All right,” he murmured. “I’ll believe you. What do you want from me?”
“I want Timothy to be reunited with his grandparents.”
“And you’ll accept safe transportation to the States, as well,” he drawled cynically.
“I’m not sure.”
Another lie, though this didn’t sound like one. She wanted to get the hell out of this country, back to the same cushy life Caterina would have had. “Oh, I imagine you’ll decide soon enough, princess,” he said. “Tell me, were you going to tell anyone the truth? Or were you going to keep passing yourself off as Caterina Morrissey?”
“Caterina Morrissey wasn’t exactly a recluse,” she snapped, some of her anger struggling back through the panic and the beer she’d drunk. “Plenty of people would know I’m not her.”
“Good point. Besides, I imagine you have family somewhere who wouldn’t take kindly to your up and disappearing.”
“I have no family left.” She didn’t look at the
gun lying on the table. It scared her, when someone who’d lived the kind of life she was trying to pass off wouldn’t be bothered by weapons, particularly under these circumstances. She was still lying, and he could see right through her.
“All right. Let’s get your story straight,” he said, moving around to the other side of the narrow bed and dropping down lightly. She jerked, but she had enough sense not to leave the lumpy mattress.
“I don’t need to get my story straight,” she said with a strange combination of irritation and barely controlled panic.. “It’s the truth. My name is Caroline Forrest. I’m twenty-six years old, American, an old school friend of Caterina Mendino’s. My family’s dead, and I came to visit Caterina at the wrong time, that’s all. She asked me to keep her company during the latter part of her pregnancy, and I agreed. When her stepfather was killed we arranged to go to the Sisters of Benevolence, and we stayed there for the last two months. Caterina gave birth, she died soon after, but she asked me to make sure her baby was taken care of. She said Billy would be coming for them. But instead you showed up.”
“And the rest is history,” he said, stretching out on the bed and eyeing her. “Of course, there’s no way to check it. Caterina, and Billy, and almost everyone else who would know the truth are all dead. The good sisters have deserted San Pablo, and that just leaves you and me and the baby.”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I trusted you. Enough to come with you.”
“But not enough to tell me the truth,” he said. “Okay. I’ll believe you.”
She was gullible enough to take him at his word. More proof that she wasn’t part of Caterina’s decadent crowd. She gave him a hesitant smile. A dangerous one. For both of them.
It would be simple enough to find out the truth. And more temptation than he felt like resisting at that particular moment. “That means we don’t need to worry,” he said in a deliberately low voice.
“Worry about what?”
“About whether you can do it or not.”
“Do what?”
There was no coquetry in the question. He almost hesitated, but he wasn’t in the mood for hesitation. He slid his fingers along the back of her neck, threading them through her cropped hair, bringing her close to him. She didn’t resist, but her eyes were wide and dark and …frightened.
“Do what?” he echoed mockingly. And he told her, in precise, Anglo-Saxon words. In detail. Exactly what he wanted to do to her.
He was totally unprepared for her reaction. He expected coyness, or even enthusiastic participation. She moved so fast, jerking away from him, that another man might have let her go.
But Reilly was in fighting form, in the midst of a war-torn country with the enemy surrounding him and two people dependent on him. His reflexes were automatic, hauling her back across the bed so that she lay across his body, trapped, panting, staring at him with terror and something else indefinable in her eyes.
“I didn’t say I was going to rape you,” he said irritably. Though he wasn’t sure why he should be so mad at himself. He’d set out to test her, to scare her. He’d succeeded in what he’d wanted, hadn’t he?
Except what he wanted was her mouth. Her panicked blue eyes closing as he kissed her. He wanted her small, perfect breasts against his bare chest, he wanted her strong, pale legs wrapped around his hips. He wanted her surprisingly strong hands with their short, unmanicured nails digging into his shoulders. He wanted to make love to her, and was a man who didn’t make love, for God’s sake, he screwed, and he had every intention of screwing her with her enthusiastic participation.
“No,” she said. Her voice wavered just slightly, her only sign of fear.
“Who are you saving it for, your highness? It’s a long night, and who knows where we’ll be tomorrow. We’re sharing a bed, we might as well share the rest of it as well. I’ve been thinking about your hot little body since I first saw you in that threadbare towel, and I know women well enough to know that you damn well want me too, even if for some reason you’re scared. I told you, I don’t rape.”
“No,” she said. She was still half lying across his lap, his unmistakable erection.
He slid his hand behind her neck, pulling her closer. She didn’t resist, and there was fear in her eyes. Fear, and anticipation.
He kissed her then. Her mouth opened beneath his, willingly enough, though she jerked in surprise when he pushed his tongue past her lips. He held her still, his large hand cupping her neck, and she quieted after a moment. Letting him kiss her. Making no effort to fight him. No effort to kiss him back.
He lifted his head and looked down at her. “Practicing passive resistance, Carlie?” he murmured. “I’m not going to force you, you know.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Just satisfying my curiosity.” He released her, and she moved to her side of the bed as quickly as she could. She didn’t try to run again. She already knew he could catch her.
He leaned back against the lumpy pillows, watching her. “I’ll make a deal with you, Carlie,” he said lazily. “Kiss me back, and then tell me no. And I’ll believe you.”
Her blue eyes were clouded, wary, but some of her panic was starting to fade, replaced by temper. “You think I won’t be able to resist you? Your conceit is really extraordinary, Reilly.”
“I didn’t say that. Just kiss me as if you mean it. And then tell me no. And I promise I won’t touch you again.”
She moved very fast, as if she didn’t dare stop to think about it, swiveling around and pressing her closed lips against his, hard. Slamming his lips against his teeth, jarring his head, banging his nose, before she pulled back, obviously shaken.
He sighed. “You can do better than that,” he said. “Kiss me as you’d kiss a lover. Or I’ll kiss you.”
As a threat it was hardly that devastating, but she reacted with unflattering fear. He waited, patiently enough, stretched out on the bed, and waited as she considered it.
“All right,” she said finally, getting to her knees with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner on death row. Her long skirt swirled around her on the bed, and he wondered whether she was wearing anything underneath it. He didn’t think so, and the thought made him ache.
Unfortunately he’d made a bargain with her. And he had every intention of keeping his side of it, as long as she kept hers.
She tilted her head to one side, as if considering how to go about it. Leaning forward, she put her small, strong hands on his shoulders, and brought her face up close to his. He watched her through lowered lids, but there was no mistaking the indecision and panic in her eyes.
“What are you afraid of, Carlie?” he murmured, his voice low and hypnotic. “It’s just a kiss.”
She closed the distance between them and put her mouth on his. Lips still closed tight over her teeth, her hands gripping his shoulders, she kissed him like an early Christian martyr going to the stake, and he wanted to laugh.
She pulled back, but he reached up and covered her hands with his, holding her there. “You can do better than that,” he taunted her. “Use your tongue.”
He half expected her to argue, but instead she put her mouth against his again. He reached up and cupped her face, stroking the sides of her mouth with his thumbs, and her lips softened, opened against his. He lured her tongue forward, carefully, masterfully, rewarded with her tentative touch against his, the quiet moan of pleasure that came from the back of her throat. Her mouth was sheer delight, hypnotizing, innocent, like nothing he’d ever tasted before, and the desire that was raging through his body rose to new heights as he deepened the kiss. He teased her, taught her, and she responded with growing delight, moving closer, her breasts within reach, her hands clutching his shoulders now, her eyes tightly closed, her mouth open, seeking, seeking....
In the distance there was the sound of gunfire. She tore herself away from him, scrambling back across the bed, and this time he let her go.
She looked at him as if he were the devil incarnate. He simply leaned back and managed a cool, deceptive smile. She had to know what was going through his body, but he wasn’t about to belabor it. “You were just beginning to get the hang of it, Carlie. It’s hard to believe you were part of Caterina’s crowd of high-living jet-setters.”
“I told you, I don’t like kissing,” she said.
“You could have fooled me. You seemed to be developing a definite affinity for it.” He stretched back and closed his eyes, waiting.
It didn’t take long. “Is that it?” she demanded, sounding upset.
He hid his grin, opening one eye. “Is that what? I presumed the answer was still no. If you changed your mind...”
“The answer is still no.”
He smiled sweetly. “Then good night.”
She stared at him, baffled. It was a small consolation. He would have found a great deal of satisfaction burying himself in her small, gorgeous body, but without her cooperation he’d have to settle for second best. Driving her crazy.
She sank down beside him, turning her back in a furious huff. Unfortunately the nature of the bed didn’t allow for temperamental snits. She slid up against him on the concave mattress.
She immediately tried to scramble away, clinging to the side of the bed. “You aren’t going to have a very comfortable night like that,” he observed, sitting up and watching her.
“I don’t anticipate having a comfortable night as long as you’re around,” she snapped.
“You’re forgetting, I’m the one who’s keeping you alive,” he murmured, reaching forward and turning down the oil lamp until the room was a dark cocoon. “If I hadn’t gotten back, you’d be in Dutchy’s bed, whether you liked it or not. And he probably has fleas.”
Silence. “Thank you for saving me,” she muttered. Belated. Grudging.
“My pleasure,” he replied, glad the inky darkness hid both his grin and his erection. Not that she seemed to take much notice of it in the light.
She wasn’t falling asleep. The bed practically vibrated with her tension, and he wondered whether she was going to be fool enough to try to sneak off when she thought he was asleep. He deliberately relaxed his body, changed his breathing, to see whether she’d go for the bait.
