Escapade (14 page)

He frowned. “What?”

“I’ll bet you never stopped this soon in your life before,” she accused.

He began to smile. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“Yes,” she said, her lips tugging up and an impish look in her sparkling eyes.

His eyebrows arched. “Was that
…
?” He nodded toward the bodice she was lacing up.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You don’t need to. You have a very expressive face. Well, well,” he murmured, and he looked so smug that she glared at him.

“You puritan,” she muttered when he put her back on her feet and sauntered into the kitchen to pour coffee into the cups.

He glanced at her with pure mischief as he put the coffeepot back in its holder. “Why? Because I won’t let you seduce me?”

“I can’t imagine why you make an exception of me,” she said with a sigh.

He stood beside her for a moment, his face guarded.
“
Because I care too much to treat you that way,” he said quietly. “I’m jealous of my own brother. Jealous of any man who looks at you.” He sat down, his expression puzzling. “When I have no right to feel that way. None at all.”

She was beginning to get the idea that it wasn’t a dislike of marriage that was keeping him away from her.

“Joshua,” she said, catching his big hand in hers, “we never used to have secrets.”

He knelt beside her chair, his eyes almost on a level
with hers. “We wouldn’t have this one,” he replied, “except that I can’t make promises until I’m sure I can keep them. When I know exactly what I’m up against, I’ll tell you.”

Her stomach felt knotted as she considered the implications of what he wasn’t saying. “You’re not ill?!”

“No,” he replied. “I’m not hiding a fatal illness.”

She let out a long sigh. “You worry me.”

“That works both ways.”
He got up and sat down on his own chair, taking time to sip his coffee. “Not bad,” he mused. “But I make it stronger.”

“You can make it next time,” she promised.

He checked his watch, swallowed the rest of the hot liquid, and got up again.

“You don’t have to leave already?” she moaned.

“Yes. I’m due in Florence by midnight, our time.” He pulled her up and held her in front of him. “I have to go.”

She searched his eyes sadly. “You’re always saying good-bye.”

“Kismet,” he murmured.

“Did you say ‘Kiss me?” she teased. “I’d be just delighted.”

She reached up on tiptoe and put her mouth firmly over his. He tensed, but almost at once he lifted her closer and began to devour her soft, willing mouth. It only made her hungrier to feel the long, powerful line of his body completely against hers. She stepped closer, trembling. It was like alcohol, she thought dizzily, kissing him back. The more she had, the more she wanted. She lifted herself against him, shivering with pleasure.

He felt it and putted back. But he was more than obviously aroused.

“Stop that,” he muttered.

“Liar,” she accused breathlessly. “You don’t want to stop.”

He gave tor a rueful smile. “Shrewd guess. It must be the result of all drat higher education.”

She glanced down and up again. “Nope. Just keen observation,” she whispered wickedly, and flushed in spite of her attempted sophistication.

He chuckled, unruffled. “I’ll be in touch.”

He walked to
th
e front door. She went with him, subdued and sad, because it was always endings for them, never beginnings.

“I’m glad you don’t want to many my brother,” he observed. “But don’t turn your
b
ack
on
him, all the same. His reputation was honestly come by.”

“Meaning yours wasn’t?” she probed.

He turned and looked down at
h
er, the open door beckoning. “Wouldn’t you like
to
know,” he teased, throwing the words she’d used earlier back at her.

“Brad won’t com
e up on my blind side. Please tr
y to get some rest,” s
he added. Her long l
ook was expressive. “You’re exhausted already, and Florence is so far away
…
”

“Worrywart.” He touched her
face with his fingertips. His eyes adored it, adored her. He smiled wistfully. “It’s dangerous to hope.”

“It’s cowardly not to,” she returned, without really understanding why he looked so sad, “When hope is ail we have.”

He dropped his hand slowly. “So long, pixie.”

She wanted to drag him back, hold him, prevent him. But he turned and walked back toward the black stretch limousine, where the driver sat with stoic patience until he approached. The liveried chauffeur got out to open the door for him. Josh got in. He didn’t look back, even when the driver cranked the car and pulled out of the driveway.

Amanda watched, though, until he was out of sight. Even then she didn’t close the door at
once
.
It was only just occurring to her that he might love her.

CHAPTER

TWELVE

M
irri
was a nervous wreck by Saturday. She
and Nelson Stuart had reached a sort of compromise in the office. She was plaguing him less and wearing clothes that were a shade more conservative than usual. He was somewhat less abrasive.

The odd thing was that he’d started giving her long, smoldering looks, the kind she’d read about in romantic novels but never seen for real. He had another look, too. Not a very pleasant one.

There was a new man in the office, Danny Tanner by name. Danny was a ladies’ man, and he took to Mirri on sight. Unfortunately for him, he reminded her of one of the boys who’d hurt her so badly. She
f
roze whenever he came near.

He’d been standing, talking to her past the lunch hour Friday. Through the glass window of his office, Nelson had seen him flirting with Mirri.

He’d gotten up, come into the outer office, and stood by Mirri’s desk, just looking at Danny. That’s all he’d
done. He’d simply looked at him, with those deep-set black eyes in a face like honed leather.

Danny had stammered something and escaped. “Don’t encourage him during office hours,” Nelson told her curtly.

“I wasn’t,” she said, defensive.

“He might as well move his pillow onto your desk, he hangs around it so much.”

She glared at him. “I’m trying to do my job.”

“I can’t imagine what you think it is.”

“Now, see here!
…
”

They stopped and stared at each other, neither giving an inch. But during the long exchange of gazes, she began to melt inside and his body went taut.

“Are you still making Stroganoff for me tomorrow night?” he asked unexpectedly.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded much softer than she wanted it to, and the smile she gave him unwittingly made promises.

“At six?”

She nodded.

He pursed his lips. “No arsenic in the sauce?”

She put her hand over her heart. “I swear.”

“So do I, but mostly under my breath.”

She couldn’t believe he’d said that. He had a slow,
deep drawl and, apparently, a dr
y wit to go with it. She started laughing. There was actually a twinkle in his eyes as he turned and went back into his office. Mr. Stuart, she was thinking, there may be hope for you yet!

M
irri worried about what to wear as she made supper Saturday night for her guest. In the end she decided to
wear a simple pale yellow silk shell with a patterned rayon skirt. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore low-heeled shoes. She hoped she wasn’t overdressed. If Nelson showed up in jeans, she was going to feel terrible. Then she laughed. She couldn’t really picture the very dignified and citified Mr. Stuart in a pair of blue jeans. She pictured him very easily in the nice suits he wore to work, like the one he’d worn when they went to the cafe to talk that night. But not jeans.

When she opened the door there he was, wearing pale blue designer jeans pulled over hand-tooled brown leather boots. His western-cut shirt looked just right under a denim jacket, and atop his dark hair was a tan Stetson that complemented his attire.

She was astonished, and it showed.

“Not dressy enough?” he drawled, his dark eyes slow and appreciative on her voluptuous figure. “You look smart in that rig.”

“Thank you. You look like a cowboy.”

“I was born
on a ranch down near Victoria. My uncle got the ranch when my grandparents passed on,” he added without mentioning his mother or her tragic end or his own bitter life. “He runs the ranch now. I go down there on holidays and help him out.”

Her eyes watched the deft movement of his hand as he swept off the Stetson and sailed it onto her sofa. “Can I help in the kitchen?”

“Nice of you to offer,” she said with a grin. “But it’s already on the table.” Thank goodness she sounded confident when inside she was shaking!

“Anticipating that I’d be here on the dot? I’ve heard
you in the back room, making bets on my sense of timing,” he mused.

She laughed. “Can I help it if some of your agents are stupid enough to bet against your sense of punctuality? I can’t turn down good money!”

“It’s a good thing for you that I’m on time,” he said, following her to the elegant little table with its white linen cloth and fresh-cut flowers, place settings neat, and food arranged attractively on platters. “Cold Stroganoff is the very devil.”

“I know. Do sit down.”

He waited, though, seating her first with a gentlemanly elegance that made her feel feminine and vulnerable. It was the first time she’d ever been with a man alone in her adult life. She was frightened and nervous, so she was more animated than usual to cover it up.

But Nelson saw through her, and he was puzzled. Amazed, in fact. She wasn’t putting on any act. She was really strung out by him. He let his eyes fall to his plate quickly before she could read the pleasure and triumph in them. She wanted him all right. This was going to be one hell of a sweet night. By morning he’d have worked her out of his system and, with luck, out of his life. He’d finally hit on the one best way to make her leave the agency. And the irony of it was that it had been at her own suggestion.

Mirri didn’t taste anything, although she was aware that the homemade Stroganoff was one of her best efforts. Her dinner guest didn’t seem to suffer from the same lack of appetite. He ate his way through two helpings of Stroganoff, vegetables, and a huge slice of apple pie to top it all off.

He leaned back in the chair, sipping his second cup of coffee. “Did you bake the pie?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Killing the apples was the hard part. They scream so—”

He chuckled. “You’re a ver
y good cook.”

“You seem surprised.”

He shrugged. “I don’t associate you with culinary skills.”

Here it was, finally, out in the open. She moved away from the table and stood up. “You have some odd ideas about me. That’s what I really wanted to talk to you about when we went to the cafe,” she began.

But he was on his feet, too, towering over her, and the look in his eyes made her nervous.

“Talking wasn’t what you had in mind when you invited me here, and we both know it, Mirri,” he said with careless mockery. His long arm shot out and suddenly riveted her to the lean length of him. “So let’s just skip the rationalizations altogether, shall we?”

She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, and his hard lips came down on it. She hadn’t been expecting the kiss. She was totally unprepared for the fierce pressure of it, as well as the insolent ass
umption that she’d invited it.

Incensed by his conceit, she pushed at his hard chest and tried to tear her mouth away from the uncompromising demand of his. But he wouldn’t let go. He lau
ghed under his breath, and his l
ean arms tautened to bruising strength. She became aware all too soon that he had no intention of stopping and, furthermore, that his body was already capable of intimacy with hers.

That was when she knew her mistake. Fighting with
him had only aroused him more. The harder she tried to get away, the closer he held her. He seemed to enjoy controlling her. And all the while his mouth was becoming more intimate, more demanding, on her lips.

She might have been able to respond to him if he’d been gentle. God knew she was attracted to him. But his headlong ardor left no room for response. It wasn’t coaxing. It was demanding and harsh and lustful.

All of a sudden it was a dark night in a lonely street and he was a gang of drunken youths bent on conquest. Horrible memories filled her mind. She felt his hand at her hips, grinding her thighs against his aroused body, and she cried out with fear.

He hardly heard her, for he was totally at the mercy of his body for the first time in his life. The feel of her softness, the delicious taste of her open mouth, made his head spin. He couldn’t think past her body under his in bed.

Aware only of a slackening in her flailing limbs, he picked her up, keeping his mouth on hers, and walked down the hall until he found her neatly made bed.

He laid her down and settled alongside her, his mouth still covering hers. She’d gone very still; there was no fight in her. He lifted his head just momentarily to look at her. What he saw was an utter and total shock.

Her eyes were wide open, staring sightlessly. She was shaking all over, but not with passion or abandoned desire. Her face was quite white—so white that her freckles were blatant in it. Her bruised mouth was trembling, and tears were rolling down her cheeks in hot profusion.

He scowled. His heartbeat was shaking him, and his
body was already aching with need. But the way she looked stopped him cold. He lifted himself a little away from her, fighting to get control of his scattered senses.

It was the opening she needed. She clawed her way off the bed, falling off it onto the floor in her frantic haste, bumping her arm on the railing.

He went toward her. She backed toward the wall, her hands crossed over her breasts. Unconsciously she began to sob with fear and shock, her voice so hoarse that the sound was barely even audible. She grappled her wa
y back against the wall to a corn
er near her closet and huddled there, shaking, her hands toward him, palms out, when he kept coming.

“No!” she cried, reduced to begging by her fear, her voice breaking on an anguished sob. “No, God, p
lease, not again. Not again!…
I won’t let you!” Her small fists clenched defensively.
“I won't!”
Her voice was shaking.

He stopped in his tracks and stared down at her with slowly dawning comprehension. During the years he’d spent in law enforcement, he’d seen enough rape cases to recognize her behavior. There was fear in her wide blue eyes, horror in the way she crouched like a whipped child waiting for the next blow to fail.

Something inside him curled up and died at the sight of Mirri’s vulnerability. Everything fell into place in his mind with sickening certainty, and the enormity of what he’d almost done to her mile him hate himself. He’d misread the situation entirely. She might dress and act wantonly, but it was all an act. And his limited experience with women had blinded him to it.

He moved back a step or two, still breathing heavily. He pushed back his disheveled hair and squatted down on one booted foot, his arm resting on his knee. After a minute, when she realized that he wasn’t coming any closer, some of the terror went out of her eyes.

“It’s all right, Mirri,” he said softly, using the tone that he employed with hurt children. “I won’t hurt you. I won’t come near you. You’re safe now.”

She shivered convulsively, her wide eyes seeing through him to the past.
“They… hurt me!” she whis
pered. “They hurt me
…
so badly!”

His face tautened. It was obvious that he’d brought back some deep-buried memory. He was ashamed. All his unwarranted assumptions about her fell away in a rage of helpless anger toward the person responsible for her torment.

But she’d said
them
!

Furious anger kindled in him, but he kept control of himself. He had to, for her sake. “Talk to me,” he said softly. “Mirri, talk to me. What happened?”

Her eyes closed, and she began to cry and hug herself and sway back and forth as the tears fell. “I used to go out at night with my friends, when I was in my teens and living at home. It was dark, and I took a shortcut down an alley. Five of the boys I went to school with were passing around a cigarette in the alley, and they had a bottle of liquor with them. They saw me and started toward me, making the sort of catcalls men make to prostitutes.”

She swallowed. “I ran. I ran very fast, but they caught me. They laughed and said I must want it, or why would I be out alone at night? And they raped me. All of them.”

His breath caught. He damned the consequences and went toward her, scooping her up into his arms before she could be frightened, before she could protest. He carried her back into the living room and sat down on a big armchair, cradling her against his chest. She was stiff at first, but after a minute or so she began to soften in his arms.

“That’s right. It’s safe to let go with me now. I’ve got you. Nothing will hurt you, ever again,” he said with gruff protectiveness. “I swear to God, nothing!” His arms contracted, and his face pressed through the thick, sweet-smelling curls of hair at her throat as he rocked her gently in his embrace. “You’re fine, Mirri. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

His arms felt gentle and protective. She felt her muscles go lax, and she began to breathe normally. Her body shivered once, uncontrollably. His big, lean hand smoothed over her shoulders, gentling her, comforting her.

He smelled nice, she thought. He was wearing something spicy and sweet, and beyond that there was the faint odor of detergent in his shirt. She remembered that his flat nails were always immaculate at work. He had nice hands.

Her eyes opened and stared across the quick rise and fall of his chest to the window beyond. One small hand curled into his shirt trustingly while she laid her cheek on his broad chest and felt his heartbeat.