Banish Misfortune (10 page)

"But-"

"Better take no for an answer, Line," Peter broke in easily. "I've learned that when Jessica makes up her mind there's no changing it."

A sullen expression deepened the flushed face of the businessman opposite her. "Then you'll have to dance with me to make up for it," he said, the sulky tone holding just a trace of a threat.

For just one moment she considered refusing. No one was going to threaten her, no one was going to order her around. She raised her head to sweetly tell him no when she saw Springer watching her, that cynical look on his dark face. "I'd love to," she said abruptly. "Just one, though."

Line practically leaped out of his seat, his hamlike hand heavy on her thin arm. So intent was he on getting her out on the postage-stamp-sized dance floor that he was oblivious as they passed Springer and Elyssa MacDowell. Jessica flashed him a small, sweet smile as she passed, telling him quite effectively to go to hell. Springer returned the smile and leaned back in his chair, that delectable mouth of his curving in malicious enjoyment. And then he was out of sight, hidden as Line yanked her against his bulky frame, and all Jessica could do was savor the memory of his initial anger.

Chapter Ten

The band was playing a sophisticated blues, something slow and just slightly defiant. It suited Jessica's mood perfectly as she allowed Lincoln to press his large frame against hers. She could only be glad he'd pushed her head against his shoulder, out of the line of fire from his Scotch-laden breath. She refused to think about why she hated Scotch. She knew full well, but it made life a great deal easier simply to accept her dislike without delving into its reasons.

His light wool suit was scratchy against her skin, and her legs were pressed so tightly against his that she could barely move. He had taken advantage of the darkness of the dance floor to breathe heavily in her small, delicate ear. She accepted with stoic forebearance when he decided slobbering with his tongue might excite her, she accepted with irritation the steady jarring of his pelvis against hers. He obviously wanted to make certain she knew how aroused he was and perhaps hoped that pressure of hardened flesh would in turn arouse her. He was in for a disappointment, she thought to herself, sighing.

Lincoln took that sigh for a sound of excitement, and he began to slobber across her cheekbone. She could smell the Scotch, but grimly she withstood the fear. She was safe, surrounded by people, nothing could happen to her. The revulsion was beginning to wash over her, combined with a sudden panic that she might push him away and destroy everything she'd worked for.

He'd taken her arms and twined them around his neck, draping his own around her slender hips. His hands were playing around her lower back, dropping lower to press her buttocks against him, his fingers kneading. She tried to step on his foot, but like most of his generation he was a very good dancer—he managed to sidestep her quite adeptly without realizing her intent. The panic was building, and she couldn't even flash a call for help to the waiting Peter. Lincoln had her face pressed hard against his shoulder, and there were too many people around, in between her and their table. There was no one to turn to for rescue, she'd simply have to tough it out, but then he'd moved his hand to her chin, and he was going to try to kiss her in the middle of this crowded dance floor! She could see his face move closer, see the tiny broken blood vessels in his aging skin, and in sudden despair she closed her eyes, unable to fight him.

The mouth never connected, the hands fell away and her eyes flew open again. Springer was standing there, an unreadable expression on his dark, beautiful face, ignoring Lincoln's glare of frustrated rage.

"I'm sure you don't mind if I cut in," he said smoothly, and there was nothing Lincoln could do but acquiesce sullenly as Springer took her gently into his arms.

"I'll wait for you at the table," Lincoln managed. She watched for a moment as he walked back across the room, his physical condition making him awkward.

"You are a witch, aren't you?" Springer said lightly. His hands were gentle on her, not pulling at her, and the song changed, to something low and sweet and sad. "Getting an old man like that into such a condition. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"He did it to himself," she said, looking up at him, wondering if he had chosen to forgive her. He had rescued her—he knew that as well as she did. She could only wonder why. It was more than possible he had his own revenge in mind.

"I think you ought to be restricted for people of uncertain health, like cigarettes and booze and salt. Dangerous for the blood pressure." There was a good three inches between them: not enough to be noticeable to anyone watching them but enough to be oddly frustrating. He was wearing a suit tonight, the first time she'd seen him in such a thing. The clean, European lines suited him, she thought absently, almost as much as that sexy white shirt he'd worn when she last saw him.

But those were dangerous thoughts. "I hope your mother doesn't mind you abandoning her," she said lightly. He felt so good. That height gave her a feeling of security she seldom had, and the strong shoulder beneath her hand seemed made for her head.

"She's the one who sent me to rescue you."

She knew she was overreacting. She knew she should laugh lightly, thank him for his good services and finish the dance. But she was coming to realize that he had the uncanny ability to destroy all her polite defenses, to rip through the convenient social veneer.

Without a word she pulled herself out of his arms, telling herself the devastating disappointment she felt was simple irritation. Without looking at him she strode back across the restaurant, skirting the dance floor so that she wouldn't have to come face to face with Elyssa's concern. Peter was alone at the table when she got there.

"Lincoln had to leave—apparently he wasn't feeling well. Some stomach thing, he said. Are you going to let me see you home, darling?" Peter's pale blue eyes were diffident and far too knowing as he politely rose, ever the gentleman.

She scooped up the tiny leather clutch purse. "No, thanks, Peter." She was pleased to hear that her voice sounded entirely normal, albeit just slightly breathless.
"I
'll see you in the morning." She pretended not to see him lean toward her for a good-night kiss, and a moment later she was out on the sidewalk, moving past the leisurely crowds at a speedy daytime Manhattan pace.

A summer night in the city was usually one of her favorite times, but tonight she paid no attention. She moved swiftly, her high heels clicking on the sidewalk, ignoring the well-dressed couples, the curious glances, the occasional leer of a passing taxi driver. She needed to get back behind the pure white walls of her apartment, hidden away from other people's demands, other people's hurting. It was all she could do to keep from breaking into a run, but her long legs ate up the distance at a rapid rate.

She was almost at her apartment building when Springer caught up with her, one of those strong, large hands catching her arm and spinning her around.

The spiked heel snapped underneath her, her ankle twisted and she fell against him. His arms went around her, holding her close, and her close-cropped head rested on the shoulder that she'd longed for just minutes ago. "You move pretty fast when you set your mind to it," he said, a hint of laughter in the voice above her head.

Damn, his arms felt good, Jessica thought helplessly, knowing she should break out of them and push him away, knowing that she wasn't going to. She was going to leave it up to him to release her, which he did, far too quickly. Squatting down beside her on the
sidewalk,
he took her long, slender leg in his hand, running his fingers over her ankle. She could barely control the unbidden shiver of delight that washed over her.

"Do you think you can walk?" he queried, standing up again, one arm holding her balanced against him. "Your apartment isn't far, is it? I can carry you."

"I can walk." Gingerly she set her foot down. It was painful, but she could make it. With his help. The thought was disturbing. "Why were you following me? And what's happened to Elyssa? Shouldn't you be seeing to her?"

"Peter's taking Elyssa home," he replied blandly as they moved slowly down the street.

"Oh, great," she said sarcastically. "What did Peter say to that?"

"Nothing, of course. Doesn't he always turn a blind eye to whatever you do?"

"You still didn't tell me why you followed me." They had reached her apartment building by then. The doorman made all sorts of concerned noises, but Springer very efficiently escorted her past him, up the elevator and into the hushed, airy confines of her sparsely furnished apartment before he bothered to answer her.

She was leaning against the heavy door, keys dangling from one limp hand as she stared up at him. She hadn't bothered to turn on the light—the dim glow of the one living-room lamp she'd left on was the only source of light in the place. Reaching past her, he carefully locked each of the three locks, still without answering her question.

"Why?" she asked again, her voice hushed in the stillness.

He had both hands on either side of her, braced against the door, and she felt imprisoned by his long arms. The sheer size of him played havoc with her emotions—she felt both sheltered and trapped by him. "I could tell you we had to talk, but I don't think that would do any good, would it?"

"Would it?"

"I could tell you you're playing a dangerous game with Lincoln, but you'd only tell me you know what you're doing." His voice was low and husky and irresistibly beguiling. "I could tell you that Peter Kinsey, charming though he is, will never give you what you need, and you'll tell me that it's up to you to know what you need. I could tell you you're destroying your life and you'd just say it's your life to destroy."

"Lovely conversation we're having," Jessica murmured. "And do you have anything to offer me in place of Peter and my career?"

"No." It was said without hesitation, without regret, it seemed. And she accepted it.

"Then why are you here?" She looked up into those dark, dark eyes of his, so unlike any she had ever known. She hadn't needed to ask that question; she knew. He had come for her, and yet the thought didn't give her its customary satisfaction, its feeling of power. It left her completely vulnerable, powerless and frightened.

He could read that powerlessness and fear in her eyes, in the slight trembling of her mouth. "You know why," he said gently, and lowered his mouth to hers.

The keys dropped onto the carpeted floor as her hands pressed against the solid wood of the door, seeking some sort of reality to combat the insidious assault on her senses. But the door was cold, unyielding wood, and the body in front of her was warm, strong and seeking. She used her hands to propel her forward, into his arms, as her mouth opened beneath his.

How could there be such a difference between bodies, she wondered dazedly. Lincoln's arousal disgusted her, Peter's left her cold. The feel of Springer's desire sent waves of longing through her veins, a longing that frightened her. She wanted to pull away from him, but she couldn't. All she could do was twine her arms around his neck, threading her hands through that silky black hair, and hold him closer, closer. She needed him, needed his warmth and strength and power, needed to believe that he cared. It no longer mattered that his mother had probably sent him once more; it no longer mattered that Peter would have a very good idea what they were doing and didn't care enough to face it. Nothing mattered but the mouth on hers, the hands cradling her body against his, stroking, soothing, holding, as his mouth seduced her.

His mouth broke away to trail warm, lingering kisses down the side of her neck. "Where's the bedroom?" he murmured against her skin.

She stiffened, an unwelcome reality intruding when she least wanted it. She didn't want to take Springer into the carefully designed confines of her bedroom that was part and parcel of the formal, distant apartment, with its white walls and stark, modern furniture, its mirrors and white rugs and lack of welcome. "No."

He didn't stop the demoralizing little path his mouth was blazing, and the hands on her body tightened just slightly. "Don't lie to me, Jessie," he murmured. "You want me just as much as I want you. And you know it, even if you want to deny it." His hands slid up her back to the neckline of her gray silk dress, and with the dexterity she'd noticed and hated before he began to undo the long zipper.

She tried to protest, but the words wouldn't form in her mind, much less make it to her mouth. Besides, her mouth was too caught up in tasting the warm skin of his neck to answer. Even his prompting failed to penetrate.

"The bedroom, Jessie. Where is it?" The dress was loose around her shoulders, only held up by his encompassing arms. A moment later it dropped to the floor around her silk-clad ankles, covering the discarded keys, leaving her wearing only a wisp of a slip and her panty hose.

He had pulled away just slightly enough to let the dress fall, and she could look up into his intent, passion-clouded eyes, and for a moment her usual sanity intruded. Was he going to carry her off to the bedroom? Would he continue to undress her, and how was he going to deal with something so prosaically unro-mantic as panty hose? She had little doubt he'd do it with his customary deftness.

A small, knowing smile danced around his mouth, as if he read her thoughts. "Stalling for time, Jess?" he murmured, his mouth dipping forward to lightly tease her lips. "It's a waste, when we both know what's going to happen. Whether I like it or not, I haven't been able to think about anything but you and that night two long weeks ago. I need you, Jessie. And you need me even more than I need you."

If he only moved back a few feet, she might be able to regain some sense of equilibrium. It was impossible with the sheer, warm bulk of him mere inches away, waiting for her. "What makes you think I need you?" She put up one last fight.

"Because as far as I can tell you haven't been loved very well at all. You need all the good loving you can get—your body's starved for it."

She could feel a hot, angry flush suffuse that starved body. "Are we talking about love or sex?" she countered.

"We're talking about bedrooms, Jessie. Where is it?" There was a decided edge beneath the mocking drawl, and then a look of belated enlightenment crossed his shadowed face, and she felt herself enfolded in his arms, one large hand spanning her slender neck and slowly caressing. "You don't want me in your bedroom, is that it?" he murmured. "All right, I'm flexible. The living-room couch, the bathtub, the kitchen? Just point me in the right direction." His mouth was teasing her pale, soft skin as his other hand molded her hips against his.

She could feel the trembling begin in her knees, traveling up her thighs and settling deep in her belly. Her hands were at his chest, fumbling with the buttons, and she knew if she didn't feel that warm, sleek hide of him beneath her desperate hands before long she'd go mad. "The back bedroom," she whispered, so low she hoped he wouldn't hear. "On the right."

But he heard, his mouth catching hers as a reward, before scooping her up in his arms with all the romance she could have wanted.

He didn't turn on the lights before he lay her down on the narrow little bed in the study that served as her escape when things grew too overwhelming. It was her haven, her solace, the only place she felt safe and free to be whoever she wanted to be. And she had absolutely no idea why she had wanted Springer to take her here, to a room she'd allowed no one else in.

He kicked the door shut behind them, standing over her as he fumbled with his tie. The streetlights were the only illumination as she lay on the faded patchwork quilt, looking up at him out of shadowed, wary eyes. His usual expertise seemed to have escaped him, for the tie knotted, and he had to yank it over his head, the buttons on his shirt caught, and he sent it spinning.

He was yanking at his belt when he caught her eyes.