Made For Each Other (12 page)

“Your former dancing partner seems to
be very interested in your well-being. Do you always kiss every man
you dance with?”

“Do you always rape every woman you
happen to be alone with?” she countered.

She tilted her head as far back as she
could so she could see his face. The blue eyes glittered like
shards of glass. She almost told him the truth, that the kiss had
meant nothing to her. But anger rose in her at Nick’s double
standard—that he could condemn her yet condone his own
actions.

A muscle flickered in Nick’s smoothly
shaven jaw. “Not yet, I haven’t . . . but my patience is wearing
thin.”

“Your patience! My pa—” But the music
ended, and she had to break off so no one would overhear her
furious words.

“Come on,” Nick said, the pleasant
smile belying the hard eyes, their depths more black now than blue.
The hand that gripped her elbow was anything but loving. “We’re
going home.”

She was truly frightened. Never had
she seen Nick’s lazy-lidded eyes glint as dangerously as they did
now. His carved lips curled in a feral smile. More than ever Nick
reminded her of the savage mountain lion stalking its prey—herself.
“I don’t want to go home right now.” She tried to pull her arm
away.

“Ah, but you were the one who told me
last week you didn’t want to attend—the exhausted bride, wasn’t
it?” And he maneuvered her through the press of people, his
imprisoning arm about her waist.

Unless she wanted to make a scene, she
knew she had no other choice than to leave with Nick. On the way
home she sat on the far side of the car, staring out her window
into the blackness beyond. She could not bring herself to look at
Nick’s granite face but could only hope that he could not hear the
tumultuous pounding of her heart.

Too quickly the lights of Santa Fe
faded behind, and the emptiness of the desert confronted her. When
Nick turned onto the dusty road leading home, she began to shake.
She knew Nick would give no quarter. No leniency was to be expected
from him. His dealings with the opponents who crossed him in the
senate had demonstrated that very effectively.

But I’m not an opponent, she cried
silently. I’m his wife!

With a screech Nick halted the car
before the camouflaged underground house that she had almost begun
to consider home. But before he could come around and open her
door, she opened it herself. She tried to maintain a dignified
composure as she marched to the house, her attitude as cold as the
tiny crystals of snowflakes whirring past. Behind her she heard
Nick’s easy long strides and quickened her own.

But at the door she was forced to wait
for him to unlock it. When she would have slid past him, he grabbed
her arm. “Not so fast, Mrs. Raffer. We’ve some talking to
do.”

She yanked her arm away. “I’m tired.
We can talk tomorrow.” She stalked to the bathroom, terrified Nick
would stop her before she covered the long distance to the door. A
covert glance cast over her shoulder assured her he was content to
glower after her.

She spent as long as possible changing
into the black silk nightgown trimmed with black lace that Pam had
given her as a wedding gift. She brushed her teeth, then her hair,
the full one hundred strokes this time—and still she was frightened
to come out.

Surely Nick was asleep by now, she
told herself, as she switched off the bathroom light and eased open
the door. The house was in darkness.

On bare feet she padded softly across
the cool tiles and took a pillow and a blanket from a
burlap-covered alcove. No hand shot out of the darkness to stop
her, no voice ordered her to halt. The bed made, she crawled
beneath the blankets with a sigh of relief. She had one more night
of reprieve . . . she thought.

Chapter Eight

S
uddenly she was cold. She shot up. Her blanket was gone. She
leaned over to retrieve it from the floor and saw the bare feet.
With a gasp she raised her gaze, following the muscular line of
calves up past the sinewy thighs and the narrow hips encased in
white briefs.

In the dimness her gaze made out the
black curls that matted the bronzed chest, then moved up to
encounter the laser eyes that pierced through her.

“I’ll give you one minute to get back
in my bed where you belong,” Nick said in a voice that was all the
more chilling for its lack of emotion. “After that I’ll force you.
It’s your choice.”

Shaking, she watched him stride back
into the darkness of the bedroom. Her woman’s mind wanted to rebel,
but every instinct told her that she would be wise to obey his
mandate.

Instinct won out. With her dignity
gathered around her like a blanket, she walked into the bedroom,
head held high. From the king-size bed came the small red-orange
light of a cigarette. She slid in between the sheets that were cool
to her feverish skin and lay there on her back, afraid to move. At
the sound of the cigarette being ground out in the ashtray she
stiffened.

Nick rolled over so that one leg
pinned her beneath him. “Who was the man who kissed you tonight?”
he asked roughly.

His face was so close that his breath,
warm with the scent of tobacco and wine, stirred her hair. “Jim
Miller, the editor of the Santa Fe Sun.”

“I thought he looked familiar.” Then:
“What does he mean to you?”

She hesitated, then decided the truth
was the best course with Nick. Besides, she knew that he, with his
connections, could have the answer at his fingertips within
minutes. “I work for him. We are only—we had only dated
once.”

Nick’s thumb and forefinger imprisoned
her chin. “But you’ve never made love with him?”

“
I—I’ve never felt that way
about anyone.”

“Not even me?” Nick whispered
hoarsely. His mouth lowered to capture hers. She squirmed, not
wanting to surrender to the kiss that consumed her as a flame the
candle.

But resistance was impossible. Her
arms crept up to encircle his neck and waist. Nick’s hand tangled
in her hair, holding fast her head so that she could not have
escaped had she wanted.

At last his mouth released her lips,
leaving them intoxicated with passion. The moment had been coming
since the night they met. And each time the two of them had come
together only to part, it had heightened their emotions and their
awareness of each other. Sexually aroused, they had warily circled
each other in a primitive mating dance.

Nick looked into her eyes, his gaze
drain-ing her now of all volition. “This is your one chance,” he
rasped, “Say the safe word now, because I’ll not wait much
longer.”

But he did not even give her a chance
to answer as his lips plundered the melon-ripe breasts and his
hands ravaged the hollows of her neck, her waist, and finally
followed the intimate contours of her thighs. An earthquake
trembled inside her as his knowing fingers found her.

She knew she would never know whether
she would have used the safe word, but now it no longer mattered.
She gave herself over to his ardent seduction of her
body.

Whatever pain she had expected never
came . . . except the exquisite pain of waiting and wanting until
at last their love was consummated and her small, perfectly
sculptured body lay on the rumpled sheets glowing with the
expertise of Nick’s lovemaking.

Nick’s hand smoothed back the damp
tendrils of hair from her temple. “Julie, of all the women I’ve
had, there’s never—”

She rolled away from his touch. Of all
the women—and now she was just one more to be added to his list of
conquests!

Enervated as she was from the
quenching of her desire, she managed to lift her head proudly. Her
eyes were frosty green slits. “You’ve broken your promise, Nick,”
she said quietly. “Don’t expect me to keep mine.”

She swung her feet over the edge of
the bed, but Nick’s hand was at her wrist. “Just what does that
mean?” he demanded. “Your promise not to destroy my career—or your
promise of fidelity when we married?”

He jerked her back down on the
mattress so that she was supported on one elbow. Her long dark hair
cascaded over her shoulder like spilt sherry. “Were you thinking of
Jim Miller even as I made love to you?” he gritted with suppressed
violence. “If so, perhaps I should make love to you again—and this
time I promise you I shall drive his name from your mind so that
there shall be only my name whispered on your lips.”

His hand released her wrist to cup one
breast, and she hated herself at the sudden passion that burned
through her loins at his touch. “Let me go, Nick,” she whispered
fervently. “You have had what you wanted.”

Still his hand caressed her, lazily
circling one turgid nipple with his index finger. “And not what you
wanted, also?” he asked softly. “Will you not listen to me? Won’t
you give me a—”

“No! You forget, I know too well how
eloquent the senator is with words. But I won’t be swayed like your
other sheep. One day, Nicholas Raffer, I’ll prove my own eloquence
with the written word!”

She fled from him then, the moisture
of their union trickling down her thighs. She sought the asylum of
the couch. She half expected him to chase her down, as the lion
does the gazelle, and reclaim her. But he did not, and at last,
dry-eyed, she fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion.

When she awakened, it was nearly
eleven. Nick was gone. She remembered him men-tioning the day
before having a client to see. No doubt the client was Sheila,
Julie thought grimly.

But that supposition was proven wrong
an hour later as she folded and put away the blankets, glad that it
was Mrs. Martinez’s day off. The doorbell rang, and she, wearing
jeans and a gray sweatshirt, answered it, to find Sheila standing
there, elegantly wrapped in a red fox fur. The woman’s finely waxed
brows arched in amusement as her critical gaze swept over Julie’s
bare feet and disheveled hair tied, as usual, in
pigtails.

“I was hoping I’d catch you two at
home,” Sheila said. She turned her head to let her. glance sweep
the terrain behind her, adding, “But I don’t see Nick’s
car.”

“He’s with a client,” she said, still
holding the doorknob. The last person she wanted to see that day
was Sheila Morrison.

“Well, in that case”—Sheila held out a
silver-and-white-wrapped box—“I wanted to give you two a wedding
gift.”

“Oh,” she said. She felt extremely ill
mannered before Sheila’s gracious gesture. And though there was
something about the woman she did not like (admit it, she scolded
herself—you’re jealous that of all the women Nick’s had, only
Sheila Morrison has been able to hold his interest), she felt
compelled to invite the woman inside in view of her generosity and
thoughtfulness.

Sheila dropped her fur negligently
across the couch in a careless gesture of one who is accustomed to
expensive items. “Could I get you a cup of coffee?” she offered,
hoping the woman would not stay long.

“That’s all right,” Sheila said
sweetly. “I can help myself. I know where everything is. Besides,
you must be tired.” She looked at her now with a knowing smile
playing about her lips, reminding her of the Cheshire cat. “I know
how that is, too. Nick can certainly drain your energies after a
night of love, can’t he?”

Julie bristled. “Is that what you call
it? I think Nick called the affairs before our marriage ‘sleeping
around.’” With a saccharine smile that more resembled a grin of
triumph she laid the gift on the coffee table. What she wanted to
do was toss it in the fireplace.

Sheila picked up her fur coat. “I can
see that this is not going to be one of those pleasant
conversations you have over a cup of coffee.”

“On that we agree.”

Sheila paused at the door, her
manicured hand resting on the knob. “I ought to warn you that if
you really love Nick, Mrs. Raffer, you won’t stand in his way. He
quite possibly could be the next governor of New Mexico. Oh, the
critics and his opponents claim he’s too young, with only one term
in the senate. But with my influence, and my father’s backing, Nick
has a very good chance of winning the governor’s race.”

“And you’re implying that with me as
his wife—”

“You’d only hamper him—an
unsophisticated little working girl. It’s been obvious to everyone
for months that Nick and I were made for each other. If you love
him, Mrs. Raffer, you’ll let him go.”

She stood there long after Sheila had
closed the door. She wanted to scream after her, “But I don’t love
him!” But pride held her tongue.

The ring of the telephone broke her
trance. “Oh, Pam,” she cried, “it’s so good to hear your voice!” In
the midst of Nick’s whirlwind courtship and marriage she had
forgotten how much she enjoyed Pam’s easygoing banter. “I promise
I’ll tell you everything this time,” she hedged. “Yes, lunch will
be fine. Give me forty-five minutes.”

Within twenty minutes she had changed
into a kelly green wool circular skirt and matching sweater with
brown leather boots. She brushed out her hair until it fell over
her shoulders in feathery wisps and added some mascara and frosted
apricot lipstick. A searching glance in the mirror told her that
she would never be as sleekly sophisticated as Sheila
Morrison,.