Forbidden Fire (19 page)

But she never took her long bath that night, never glanced at the tray of food that she had been brought. She didn't even take her shoes off. She closed her eyes, stretched out on the silky cover.

She had no trouble sleeping in her new home, Ian's house, at all.

Nor did dreams trouble her. She wasn't aware when the door between the two rooms, the door she had not remembered to bolt after demanding to know if it could be locked, opened.

Ian walked in quietly and stared at her face for a long moment. He sighed softly, unlaced her shoes and pulled them from her feet. Sweeping back the covers, he laid her upon a pillow and started to loosen her blouse.

The act was too reminiscent of one he had performed before. He felt the muscles tighten in his jaw and despite himself, he smoothed his knuckles over her cheek. She seemed so innocent, sleeping. Beautiful, with her fair skin, softly parted lips, flawless oval face and lovely features. The passion within her was silenced now, but he remembered with discomfort the vehemence of her attack upon him. He turned away from her, lowered the gas lamp and returned quietly to his room.

He stood overlooking the downtown area of the city far below. Lights flickered and gleamed, and the fog was softly swirling in, like a magical dragon, from the bay.

What hardships had he known? he taunted himself. He'd been a fighter, he told himself, always a fighter. He'd gone his own way, he'd fought to build homes and offices that would be both beautiful and safe. He'd never taken the rich man's way out, and despite his father's advice, he'd enlisted in the Navy.

He'd fought for Diana, fought as long and hard as any man could fight.

But he hadn't really known hardship. Marissa was right. Not the way she had made him see it so briefly. But she was a child of privilege, too. How could she bring the suffering so vividly to life?

And why did she have such an effect upon him?

He sighed and kept his eyes upon the city he loved. It wasn't late. By the waterfront, the dance halls and theaters and bars would be going strong. He should don his coat and escape this house tonight.

But he didn't. He continued to stare at the magical city within the magical fog. And when he turned from the windows at last, it was to strip off his clothing, turn down the lamps and crawl into his bed.

He had wanted to hold her tonight, he thought gravely, fingers laced behind his head as he stared at the darkness of the ceiling. It had been something different than the raw desire that had sparked him in London, something deeper than the sexual desire that could still plague him because of her beauty. He had wanted to hold her, to ease away the hurt.

And for the first time, he realized, he had been startled from his depression. He was not the only man to suffer a loss. From the tone of her voice, he had sensed a loss, a pain, different perhaps, but as deep as any pain he had ever known.

She had lost her father recently.

But the anguish he had seen in her eyes seemed to go deeper than that. As if she had truly understood a different world.

He has seen that world himself, and it had, indeed, been dismal. Once investors had encouraged his father to buy into the mine. The squire had warned James Tremayne that he would despise the place, and James had indeed despised all he had seen. Life was hard for the common worker. It was a lesson Ian had learned that day.

But even in that darkness, there had been a curious beauty. And pride. He suddenly remembered the little girl he had seen there. She had been so clean and white. So determined. So different from the other black-faced waifs, covered in dirt and grime and coal, who had reached out small grubby hands for any little pittance that might come their way. She had been angry, and proud. He smiled. It was strange. She'd had eyes like Marissa's, startling, vivid green eyes. Or maybe he was just remembering the child as having his wife's eyes, because both had been determined to give him battle.

The village had been a terrible place. He had sensed death, and pain, and a raw struggle to survive.

Marissa must have felt for her friend greatly.

And tonight, Ian had wanted to hold Marissa, to smooth her hair. To give her security against …

He didn't know.

Shrugging, he ground his teeth together hard and turned over with a vehement twist, pounding his pillow. He was tired; he should sleep. He had a meeting with the men tomorrow about the new buildings for the waterfront district. And he had to show his new wife and her friends something of the city. And there was young James to see settled in at the emporium. He was weary; he should sleep.

But he did not.

Ian was the one to lie awake most of the night.

It taunted him to know that Marissa lay just beyond the door.

A door she had not remembered to lock against him, despite her words.

There had been something about her, that night in England. Something that still teased and haunted his senses, something that made the present seem suddenly more important than the past. Something in her eyes had challenged him, something in her heart had awakened him. Something in her innocence still laid claim to him.

And she had not locked the door. It was his house, he had told her, his door. And he'd never made any promises or agreements.

She was so close. All he had to do was step through the door.

He turned again, closing his eyes tightly. She could not take Diana's place. He would not let her. He could not let her be a wife in truth. And if his flesh burned and if his dreams were fraught with images of her, he would learn to get past them. That was why he had gone to see Lilli.

But Lilli, even with her pretty face and stately form, could not compare with Marissa. The lift of her chin, the emerald blaze of her eyes, the cascade of her hair. Her passion, so visible in her anger …

So sweet when she allowed it to flow and undulate in his arms. He could not forget the scent of her skin, the silk of her hair, entangling him.

Desire … It was natural, for she was beautiful, and she was young. The sparks of fury that flowed between them could so easily become more.

But tonight …

Tonight he had listened to her cry out to him. And she mocked him and railed against him.

But her words had been true, and she had awakened more in him than desire. He'd never intended to be a self-pitying monster. He had just missed Diana with all his heart.

He'd married Marissa; he'd made no promises. He had only to burst through the door, lift her into his arms and carry her in here, to his bed. He'd not force her. He'd make love to her, and her protests would die softly away as they had before. And he would ease the rage in his loins and the tension in his limbs.

He rose, sleek and naked in the night. He took two steps toward the door between them, then paused.

He might ease the tension and desire, but he'd create a new tempest in his heart. He could not bring her to this bed, for it had been Diana's bed. He could not sweep Marissa into any world he had shared before.

He had married Marissa. He still could not allow her to be his wife.

The fog settled over the city, and the moon rose high above it to create a soft, surreal glow.

And Ian stood there, muscles knotting, his head cast back. He nearly cried out as pain and longing knotted together within his soul.

Minutes passed, long, aching minutes. He padded to the window and looked out again on San Francisco. He inhaled and exhaled slowly. It seemed that he stared out at the city forever.

A foghorn sounded and he started, then smiled, with just a hint of tenderness curling his lip.

She had just arrived. She was close, and it was his own fault. When she had still been endless miles away, he had not thought that having her so near could wreak such havoc upon him.

She slept in exhaustion. So innocently.

No, he thought wryly. He would not disturb her sleep, no matter what decision he had made within his heart.

He would leave her be.

He realized suddenly that light was breaking through the fog. He had stayed awake for hours, staring into the night.

He laughed ruefully.

He'd leave her be …

Maybe.

And then again …

Maybe he'd let her live in just a bit of the tempest that was nearly driving him to distraction!

Chapter Ten

M
arissa awoke with a sense of disorientation. She opened her eyes to see her fingers stretched over embroidered cream sheets. Across the room, she could see the door to the bathroom slightly ajar. The morning light was streaming through the etched and beveled windows, and the entire room was cast in a soft glow.

The night's sleep had done her a world of good, and she smiled slowly. This was all hers. These rooms were her domain. With their soft and subtle beauty, they were where she lived.

She rose, frowning for a moment as she tried to remember taking off her shoes, then she shrugged. She had been so very tired, she couldn't even remember falling asleep.

Her bags were still on the floor at the foot of the bed. She rose, found her overnight case and searched diligently for her toothbrush and cosmetics, then headed into the bath. She doused her face and scrubbed her teeth and smiled to the image in the mirror over the porcelain sink. “A prison not so tortuous, I think!” she told herself. She was ready to wrestle with Ian once again this morning. With a vengeance.

She turned on the gold spigots for the tub, thinking of home. This house offered everything. At Uncle Theo's, a bath had been a time-consuming chore. She had to heat endless pots of water, drag out the tub, fill the tub, empty the tub! Even at the manor there had been no running water. There had been several “necessary” rooms, but nothing like this.

She took bubble bath from the cabinet and added it liberally to the water. Then she quickly disrobed and stepped into the tub, luxuriating in the heat.

The bubbles rose around her and she was delighted. She sank down as the water rose, drenching her hair, rubbing her scalp. She inhaled the sweet rose scent of the bubbles and doused herself again, feeling like a child. Then, with a soft sigh, she settled back, her head resting on the edge of the tub, her arms elegantly draped over the sides.

“Not so horrid a prison,” she murmured. And she lifted a hand, pointing as she might to make something clear to a schoolboy. “Mr. Ian Tremayne will be made to see that it cannot be had both ways, and then I think that I shall settle in very nicely! He will be put in his place, I swear it!”

“Really?”

The quiet, amused challenge of his voice coming from behind her was the greatest surprise of her life. She almost bolted from the bubbles, then managed to twist around beneath them to stare at him where he leaned against the door frame, his arms casually crossed, brows arched as he stared at her. He was dressed for business in a pin-striped suit with a gray silk vest and white pleated shirt beneath. Hatless, and with the errant lock of hair falling over his forehead, he was striking. Her heart began to pound, and she forgot for a moment that she was ready to wrestle with him. He was definitely one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. Yet it wasn't just his looks that made him so arresting; it was that air of confidence, the energy, the tension. There was danger in his eyes, in the fire within them. And despite her pride, it was far too easy to flicker close to the flames burning there.

She remembered her pride at last. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded sharply.

“Oh, just listening to how you'll put me in my place,” he replied with a casual smile.

Flames crept to her cheeks, but she remembered she was the one with the right to be indignant. “These are my private quarters—”

“I knocked, but you didn't answer.”

“Then you weren't given leave to enter!”

“You might have been drowning here, my love. I had to make sure you were all right. Indeed, I thought at first that you
were
drowning, since your head was lost in the foam.”

“Well, I wasn't drowning, and I'm quite all right, and you've no business in here at all!”

“I own the house.”

“But you gave me the bath!”

“I did not give it to you!” he protested. “I loaned it to you.” He took two long strides into the room and knelt beside the porcelain tub. Marissa tried to maintain her dignity by drawing the bubbles around her.

They were breaking up at an alarming pace.

She narrowed her eyes. “Out!” she told him sharply.

“I really don't understand your distress,” he said, a leisurely smile curling his lip. “We're adults, man and wife—be honest here! I've seen in the naked flesh all that you would hide behind those elusive bubbles—”

“In the dark, in London, a long time ago—and during a mistake, which you yourself apologized for!” she interrupted, her temper growing. He was so near. And the curve of his smile and the humor in his eyes were nearly akin to tenderness.

He touched her, drawing a soft line from her throat to her shoulder. “It was not so dark, what matters the city, not so long ago, and an apology would do nothing to alter my memory of every piece of your—of you. Dear Lord, those bubbles do not last long when you want them to, do they?”

If she was losing them anyway, Marissa determined in a flash of fury, she might as well use them well. She dipped a hand into the water and sent a spray of bubbles flying onto his face and chest. She was rewarded with a sharp oath and a sea of sputtering. “Marissa, you little witch—”

She leaped up, thinking to escape, remembered she was naked, and decided she had best run anyway.

He caught her just as she reached the bedroom. His hands slid over the length of her flesh, but she eluded him, for the soap that remained on her was slick and slippery. “No!” she shrieked, torn between panic and laughter.

“You've destroyed my suit!” he thundered.

“You destroyed my bath, and my privacy!” she retorted. The bed was behind her. She turned to grab the sheet, but he was moving again, striding quickly across the room. He caught her with an energy that sent them both flying down upon her beautiful bed. She was soft and slippery, the essence of the bubbles still upon her flesh.