Fletcher's Woman (37 page)

Something unrecognizable passed between the two men, chilling the fragrant warmth of the summer evening. But then Griffin squeezed Rachel's hand in an eloquent grip and walked off to seek his hostess.

There was something vaguely unnerving hiding behind the clear admiration in Jonas's face. As the music began again, he gathered Rachel into his arms, and she sensed a sort of deadly mourning in his touch.

As they danced, he spoke of ordinary things; the weather; the wild tiger lilies gracing the table, which had been pushed back against one wall; the skill of the four musicians providing the lovely melody to which they danced.

Rachel tried to be attentive, but once or twice, her gaze slipped to Griffin and Athena, who were dancing on the far side of the room. How splendid they looked together, Griffin so tall, well built, and commanding, Athena silver-haired and glowing with delight.

When Rachel returned her wandering glance to Jonas's face, she saw something there that startled her. Was it grief? Rage? She couldn't tell.

“Athena is beautiful, isn't she?” she whispered, lamely.

“Staggeringly,” replied Jonas, his voice clipped and suddenly not ordinary at all. “Beware your heart, Urchin.”

Rachel was flushed with a sensation of wary challenge. “What do you mean by that?”

Jonas's eyes were ferocious with that same unreadable emotion she had seen moments before. “I mean that Athena has never been refused a single desire in her life. And she wants Griffin.”

As the music came to a graceful stop, Rachel stiffened. “Jonas—”

But his index finger came to rest on her lips, silencing her. “This is a dangerous game, Rachel. A very dangerous game. Just remember that I'll be here when it's over.”

Rachel was still puzzling over those words when Jonas strode away. He met Griffin midway, and the two men skirted each other in an instinctive, practiced way.

There was high color in Athena's Grecian face as she
watched Jonas approach, as she listened to his whispered confidence. Then, her soft blue gown capturing the light as she moved, she took Jonas's arm and the two of them disappeared through the French doors leading out to the garden.

Rachel realized that she was staring after them and blushed with embarrassment when she turned her eyes to Griffin. Fortunately, he had been waylaid by Dr. O'Riley and was listening so intently to him that he hadn't noticed Rachel's curiosity.

When Griffin turned to her, she saw only relief in his eyes, and she relaxed a little, even though she still had unexplainable misgivings about the sudden disappearance of Jonas and Athena.

What were they talking about, out there in that rose-scented, moonlit garden? Were they, by some fantastic chance, plotting together? Rachel scolded herself. It was silly to think such a thing, and vain, too.

“Why are you smiling that way?” she asked Griffin, in an effort to shake the last vestiges of uneasiness away.

“Because you're so beautiful,” he said. “Because dancing with Athena was such a deadly bore. And because I just found out I didn't kill a man.”

Rachel swallowed, staring up at him now, stricken. “Kill a man?” she echoed, stupidly.

His great shoulders shifted in a confused sigh. “I don't know why I feel good to know Douglas Frazier is better, but I do. John just got word that he's conscious again.”

“Conscious?” Rachel whispered. She hadn't asked anyone about Douglas Frazier since the night Griffin had somehow saved her from him, hadn't dared to wonder whether or not he still posed a danger. “Griffin, what did you do?”

“I nearly beat him to death,” he answered flatly, and there was a guarded look in his eyes as he watched for her response.

Rachel was remembering Dobson, the battered lumberjack who could thank Griffin Fletcher for both his injuries and his recovery. There was a deadly, ruthless violence within this man, and the recognition of this fact had a contradictory effect on her. While she valued his strength, she found herself fearing that ungoverned rage lurking behind his brusque, if gentlemanly, manner.

To her horror, Rachel found that he had somehow followed her thoughts and anticipated the most disturbing one of all.
“You're safe with me, Sprite,” he said, in a cold, measured voice.

Rachel was contrite. “I know that, Griffin,” she said, and she did know it.

There was a welcome smile in his eyes now, if it didn't quite reach his mouth. “Which is not to say that there aren't areas where I find my energies a little hard to restrain. Right now, I would give anything to be alone with you.”

His meaning was clear, and Rachel felt the same need he did. But a month was a tolerable length of time, and she wanted no regrets if, after that interval, he decided that it was Athena he wanted.

“You are a very forward man, Griffin Fletcher,” she said, knowing full well how her eyes and body tempted him. “But you will just have to wait.”

The dark eyes smoldered as they moved boldly to her breasts and back to her face. “You're the second person to give me that advice,” he drawled. “And I'm notoriously bad at taking advice.”

Rachel felt crimson color pounding in her face; suddenly, it was as though she was bared to him, and vulnerable, in front of all those people. To her mortification, the sensation was not altogether unwelcome, and when he grabbed her hand and dragged her out into the dimly lit hallway, she did not protest.

His mouth came down to consume hers, to consume all of her—including her worthy intentions. She trembled with an aching, unreasoning need.

The night was still and warm and bright with the light of a million stars when Griffin led her outside, around the side of the house opposite the garden, and into a small orchard of apple trees.

The blossoms had a trembling, tenuous beauty, there in the light of the moon and stars. They would be gone soon, sacrificed to the warm days of summer, but for now, they were like translucent pink silk, dipped in silver.

In the center of that magical orchard, Griffin kissed her again. And there was so much hunger in that kiss, so much commanding, irresistible hunger, that Rachel could not withstand it.

She gasped in sheer delight as his hands caressed her thinly covered breasts, making the nipples stand out, hard and pulsing, beneath the soft apricot lawn of her gown.

With a soft groan, he pressed her back against the rough bark
of a gnarled, whispering tree, and held her there, his eyes moving over her in a deliciously wanton sweep.

Then, very slowly, his hands came to the daring neckline of her dress. She felt a rush of savage, reckless joy as he pulled slightly, catching both the dress and the camisole beneath it just under her breasts. She moaned as he bent his head and sampled one hard, jutting nipple with just the tip of his tongue. “Please,” she whispered.

But the sweet, merciless teasing went on until it was nearly intolerable, until everything within her pleaded wordlessly for the hard pressure of his body against hers. And still, Griffin nibbled softly at the tiny protrusion.

Rachel grew wildly impatient, groaning his name, writhing with pleasure.

“Say it,” he said, flicking at the pulsating nipple now with the taunting tip of his tongue.

“Oh,” she groaned, in the frustration of her need.

“Say it,” he repeated.

“Suck,” she whispered, in delicious defeat.

Now, the full of his mouth was tugging at her, suckling her very womanhood into that single, tormented nipple. She parted her legs as his hand lifted her skirts to caress her satin-covered thighs, to explore and seek and, again, tease without mercy.

Suddenly, he stopped suckling to stand, still and commanding before her. “Undress,” he said.

Rachel hesitated only for a moment, almost hating him for the way he could dominate her, overrule her decisions, make her want to plead for the touch of his hands and the fiery exploration of his tongue. She turned. “I can't manage these buttons.”

Griffin's fingers were awkward as he undid them, but swift, too. He made no move to slide the dress from her shoulders, or turn her back to face him.

With a kind of shameless irritation, Rachel faced him, waited. Still, he made no move to remove the dress. His eyes, his stance, commanded that Rachel do that, that she bare herself to his gaze.

And she did. The dress drifted to the soft ground, pooled around her feet in a cloud of apricot. With trembling hands, she slid the dislodged camisole and her satiny drawers down, too.

I hate
you
for being able to make me do this, Griffin Fletcher,
she thought, as her traitorous body throbbed under his gaze.
The strange thing is, I love you for the same reason.

She approached him, a proud nymph clothed in moonlight, and, boldly, deftly, opened his trousers. His hard response, his hoarse, primitive cry, gave her to know that she dominated now. She commanded.

Slowly, Rachel knelt, and her teasing was as deliberate and controlled as his had been. But he had no tree to lean against, no support but the wide stance he'd taken. His breathing was harshly metered, and interspersed with soft, desperate cries.

Rachel was dizzy with desire, with triumph. “Say it,” she ordered.

He moaned, savoring his resistance.

“Say it, Griffin.”

He nearly shouted the word.

It was a point of honor. Rachel continued until he cried out and stiffened in violent release.

“Witch,” he rasped, sinking to his knees, pressing her to the soft ground with his hands.

Again, the mysterious command had shifted. Closing her eyes, Rachel surrendered to the blazing, tender torment of his vengeance. Again and again, the passion swept her starward, to the very edge of ecstasy, and then plunged her back to earth once more.

When her release came at last, in treacherous, convulsive waves, Rachel cried out in the force of it.

Afterward, they lay still for a long time, exhausted and speechless.

“We'd better go back,” Rachel whispered, when she could manage to assemble the words.

But Griffin was shaking his head. He raised himself to his knees, pulled Rachel to a sitting position. His mouth came hungrily to her breast, and Rachel held him, her fingers entwined in his dark, love-rumpled hair, as he suckled.

•   •   •

Jonas was grateful for the relative privacy of the O'Riley parlor. Enraged, he paced back and forth in front of the hearth, beneath the painting of Athena.

She stood just inside the closed doors, her arms folded across the blue silk temptation of her gown, her eyes following Jonas's progress with fiery impatience.

“I told you the situation was serious, didn't I, Jonas?” Athena said, in a voice quaking with humiliation and rage.

Jonas stopped his pacing abruptly, turned his unbearable anger on Athena. “Rachel wouldn't,” he warned.

Athena was undaunted. “Not with you, maybe. But they're not out strolling in the moonlight and deciding the arrangement of the parlor furniture, I can tell you that!”

He wanted to die. A torrent of shattering pictures whirled in his mind, sickening him, deepening the fury that sustained him. Rachel and Griffin. The prospect was intolerable. No matter what, he could not let it happen. “Just because you do your best work on your back, Athena,” he said, in a low, deadly tone, “that doesn't mean Rachel does.”

Athena shrugged, and the gesture was an almost laughable contradiction to the murderous gleam in her dark blue eyes. “Believe whatever you want to, Jonas. I can't afford to delude myself any longer—something has to be done, and fast.”

“Like what?” Jonas bit out.

Athena raised one golden eyebrow. “What else? We arrange the one discovery Griffin could not bear to make.”

Jonas turned the idea in his mind, examining it. His anger, he discovered, had not completely displaced his reason. “No,” he said, flatly.

“Why not? You could wait until she was asleep, and then we could arrange for Griffin to find you beside her—”

“You make me sick, Athena.” Bile burned in Jonas's throat.

The indigo eyes flashed with stunned offense. “And you are so noble, Jonas. Are you forgetting that it practically drove him mad the first time?”

“It would push him even further now. Athena, I know you don't give a damn, but he would kill me with his bare hands. Maybe you've never seen Griffin go crazy like that, but I can assure you, it isn't a sight that inspires bravery!”

“You're afraid of him!”

“You're damned right I'm afraid of him!”

“Then you don't want Rachel as badly as you say you do.”

“I want Rachel,” Jonas vowed, in a rumbling, dangerous rasp. “I
love
Rachel. And even if I happened to survive your little plan, by some miracle, she would spit in my face!”

Now, it was Athena who paced. “Well, we've got to do something, Jonas. If he marries her, we're both going to be out in the proverbial cold!”

Jonas spotted a decanter of whiskey on a nearby table and poured a triple into a glass. He swilled the smooth liquor in a desperate need for its singular comfort. “He's not going to marry her,” he said. “He's not going to
have
her.”

Athena looked skeptical. Her beautiful features were slightly
blurred now, and her dress was like a piece of moving sky. “What if he already has, Jonas? Will it matter to you that she's been with Griffin?”

“No,” Jonas said. But the pain the image engendered was brutal, blinding.

Suddenly, Athena was before him, and he could see her features clearly again. “There is one other option, Jonas,” she said, in a tortured whisper. “We could comfort each other.”

Jonas's laugh sounded raw, tremulous, and it ached in his throat. “Comfort?” he repeated, mockingly.

Athena's hands moved to his lapels, warm and compelling; even through the fabric of his shirt, he could feel the heat of them. But he felt nothing else—he seemed to be bound by a crazy, singular fidelity of some sort. He'd learned that with Fawn Nighthorse, and he wasn't planning to test the theory again.