Paradise Burning (26 page)

Ah
. Now he was
sounding desperate.

“
You can tell the neighbors in the
morning.”

Mouth open, she swung round to face him,
doing a fast side-step as her hip brushed the rock-hard rigidity of
his arousal. “Tell them what?” she asked when she got her breath
back.

“
That we’re married. Separated but
working on a reconciliation.”

“
Oh.” The RV wavered around her, as a
tidal wave of awareness threatened to pierce the cocoon she’d
wrapped around herself. Threatened everything she was. Everything
she’d believed so steadfastly for so long.

“
You don’t have to tell them anything,
of course,” Peter continued, as if oblivious to all but the
practicalities of the moment, “but I thought you were worried about
what they’d think.”

The man had an answer for everything.
But Pennington’s pragmatism was a long way from romance.
Foolish girl, if you want romance, you should have
fallen in love with someone else.

“
No strings, no obligations, Mouse.
Just a hot affair while we figure out if it’s a wildfire or an
everlasting flame.”

Okay, two could play this game. “You deduced
all this from Chicken Cordon Bleu and birthday cake?”

“
Don’t forget the painting. And the
Häagen-Dazs.”

Damn him for being right. She’d offered him
every come-on in her limited arsenal. How could she possibly blame
him for expecting she was included with dessert? It wasn’t as if
the tensions zinging around them as they worked together each day
weren’t strong enough to singe the furniture.

She’d been pretty naive to think Peter
wouldn’t . . .
Aw, come on, girl. Admit it.
If he hadn’t made a pass, you’d be desolate.

So . . . She’d only have to tell Glenda. By
nightfall the entire campground would know she was married to Peter
Pennington. But the price was high, the toll on her emotions too
painful to contemplate.

Yet could anything be worse than the glacial
limbo they’d been living in since she arrived? Polite tolerance,
subtle evasions. The longing. The sleepless nights. To hell with
being Miss Proper Bostonian. To hell with being the wounded spouse.
Let the compactor do its worst. What better time for a hot and
steamy affair than a chilly March night?

That was bravado talking. A blatant,
and misguided, declaration that she, too, was capable of looking on
their relationship as an experiment. An affair.
Let’s see how it fits, baby.

Mandy shuddered.

At AKA, it was her job to make sure there
were as few risks as possible. Basically, deep down, she was
anti-risk. But this wasn’t a mission, this was personal. The only
thing she would be risking was her heart. And she’d had a lot of
experience dealing with that particular pain.

An affair
. No
lasting commitment required. Sort of a license to make love. The
thought curled her toes. And sent a flow of moisture to join the
dampness that had sprung into readiness the moment her hip
encountered Peter’s erection.

Get a grip!
Mandy had to swallow hard before she could force her vocal
cords into action. “I do believe it’s time for the grand tour,” she
drawled. Peter’s amber eyes flared to feral intensity. Shoving
aside all the grand promises she had made to
herself—
strictly business, cold shoulder,
supreme indifference
—on the long drive south, Mandy
seized his hand and towed him toward the bedroom.

Peter followed her down the center
aisle with all the eager awkwardness of a puppy trailing a new
master, his head too filled with whirling lights and explosions of
joy to keep from stumbling over his own big feet.
It worked? She fell for it
. He’d
actually found a way around Mandy’s stiff-necked pride, her
flat-out stubbornness. His wife was dragging him into her bedroom.
The black hole at the end of the aisle. Nirvana.

Maybe that’s where she kept the handcuffs,
whips, and chains.

Stud service. You’re being used,
Pennington.

At the moment he couldn’t care less.

Peter leaned against the door jamb and
inspected the room that was illuminated only by light drifting in
from behind him. Mandy, evidently snapped back to the caution of
the mouse kingdom, had dropped his hand and was standing two feet
away, wedged between the queensize bed and a built-in chest of
drawers. Her face, set in a mask, was deathly pale.

Damn!
She was
having second thoughts.

“
Hey, Mouse,” he said, his voice
pitched to a sexy whisper, “I’m a writer, remember? I’d like to
propose a scenario.” He hitched a quick breath and plunged on. “We
never met ‘til you came to work for me. We’ve been pussy-footing
around a mutual attraction ever since. Let’s face it, anyone with
half an eye could see the sizzle rising above the house. Enough to
roast a few birds and squirrels, send the vultures into a feeding
frenzy.”

Mandy’s set face softened. She choked
on a giggle. “You
do
have a
gift for fiction.”

Peter waved her to silence, raised his eyes
to the low ceiling, as if searching for inspiration. “This is the
first time we’ve allowed ourselves to follow our inclinations.
Professional ethics be hanged, let’s let ourselves go. What’s a
little sex between colleagues?”

“
You know, Pennington, you’re about as
romantic as an old shoe.”

“
Mea culpa
, but
I promise to improve. Flowers, candy, dinner, dancing, movies, the
theater. You name it, I’ll arrange it. Peter Pennington, maker of
magic.”

“
And what if I hold you to
that?”

“
Sold. It’s a deal.” He held out his
hand.

“
Anyone tell you you’re decidedly
weird?”

“
All the time.” He wiggled his fingers.
“Well? Do I have to chase you?” With two of them in a room that was
mostly bed and Peter filling the only exit, they both knew where a
chase would end.

Instead of taking his hand, Mandy bent down
and lifted the hem of her skirt.

Peter blinked. The black and white dress had
been a slinky bit of nothing, but what she was wearing underneath
was . . . As the dress pooled at Mandy’s feet, Peter’s jaw fell
open. His Mouse wore Victoria’s Secret? What had to be its most
minimal design? In see-thru black?

Stud service
.
She’d planned this.

Later. He’d think about it later.

Her determined look was back. She sauntered
forward. His head whirled. He ached. And not just in the obvious
place.

She reached for his tie. “Need help?” she
breathed.

A shiver washed over him, he fought to make
his jaws move. He wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter that
they were using each other for stud service or a comfort blanket.
All that mattered was that they were together. But her fingers were
busy under his chin, her expanse of pale northern skin glowing
before him, the scent of her filling his nostrils, his mind
dissolving into a sensuous haze.

In honor of tonight’s occasion he’d worn
French cuffs, with amber studs Mandy had given him for Christmas
one year. Plunging his hands under hers, he jerked at the studs,
managed to slip them into his pocket. But not without encountering
several portions of Mandy’s anatomy in the process, sending jagged
lightning bolts through his already sensitized skin. Mandy too
perhaps, because she paused, eyes closed, her fingers clutching the
almost free knot under his chin.

Peter moved her hands aside, finished the job
in one swift tug, attacked his top two buttons and pulled the shirt
over his head, allowing it to fall to the rug with as much abandon
as Mandy had dropped her dress.

Mandy reached for his belt. He clenched
his teeth, afraid he might come in his pants. It had been so damn
long. He groaned, dug his fingernails into his palms.
A-ah!
She’d snaked the belt out. Her
fingers touched his zipper. He wasn’t going to make it. He’d waited
so long for this moment, and he was going to blow it. Literally.
What was that old advice for Victorian virgins?
Lie back and think of England?
What could be more
off-putting than that?

It wasn’t working.

“
We forgot your shoes.” Mandy’s flat
tone pierced his sexual haze.

Okay, so shoes were right up there with
thinking of England. Peter sighed. Grabbing Mandy by the shoulders,
he spun her around and dropped with her onto the bed. Ah, God, yes,
that was
much
better! Shoes,
socks, trousers, briefs, bra, panties. All hit the floor in a
sudden frenzy of flying hands, shimmying bodies, and kicking
feet.

Naked at last.

Somehow Mandy ended up on top, sitting
astride, Peter’s more-than-readiness jutting upward just in front
of her. “Don’t touch it,” he gasped. “I’m sorry. This isn’t going
to be the way I’d planned. I thought I was stronger,” he added
through clenched teeth, “but I need to be inside you before I make
a complete ass of myself.”

Warily, she eyed the length of him.
“Truthfully, it’s been so long I can’t help but wonder if that will
fit.”

That caused him to blink. “No one, Mouse? In
all this time?”

“
I tried a couple of times, just for
revenge. Went through the motions, but that’s all it was. Celibacy
seemed a wiser choice.”

Peter groaned. “Tell me you’re not backing
out. Please.”

Mandy tilted her head, considering. “I’m
toying with the idea of taking my revenge by letting you
demonstrate what an ass you really are.”

“
You wouldn’t!” He reached for her.
Grabbing his wrists, she slammed his hands to the bed. “Wanna
fight, Pennington?” Green eyes gleamed, taunting him.
Laughing.

She leaned in, her breasts dangling straight
in front of his eyes, his swollen cock pressed against her stomach.
Her skin was hot, nearly as fiery as his. If he had an ounce of
sense left, he’d let her do what she had to do, be the new Amanda
Armitage, maintain control. But it was too late. He was what he
was. He was a male of the species, this was his wife.

Peter flipped them over with ease, heard
Mandy’s tiny gasp as his fingers found her opening, found her wet.
Gently, he parted her engorged folds, felt her fingers close around
him, guiding him in place. He moved slowly, determined not to hurt
her. This was Mandy. Wife. Lover. The only woman he wanted for the
rest of his life, and he wasn’t going to spoil the moment, even if
it killed him.

Murmuring her name, he inched inside her.
Farther, still farther, until he reached the end of the tight
passage, right up against her womb.

Stud service.

Not now, not now!
Forgetaboutit!

“
Okay?” he whispered, his lips poised
above hers.

“
Yes.” Was he imagining the touch of
wonder in the word?

“
I’m sorry.” He pulled out, thrust
home, and, as he’d feared, the world exploded around him. Mandy’s
arms and legs hugged him tight as waves of lightning swept over
him. Colors sparked, expanded, contracted, morphed into one great
white bolt that flattened him onto Mandy’s body, too spent to
move.

When he came back to the world, a long time
later, she was still holding him, one hand fisted in his hair.
“Jesus, I’m sorry, you must be squashed.” He rolled off, flopping
onto his back, one hand draped over her belly.

“
Thirty-seven,” Mandy mused. “Are you
done, old man? Or should I let you stay ’til morning?”

“
Anya! Annushka!” Nadya bent over the
still figure sprawled on the bed in the small but well-appointed
room. The Ukrainian girl’s hair billowed against the white pillow.
Her eyes were closed, her body limp, her face nearly as pale as the
bedding. More gaunt than anyone of nineteen should ever be. Nadya
put her ear to the girl’s chest, searching for signs of life. An
infinitesimal rise and fall, soundless even in the deep quiet of
seven o’clock in the morning when everyone else had taken to their
beds with their customary relief. All but Nadya Semyonova and Karim
Shirazi.

Nadya grabbed her friend by the shoulder,
shook her hard. “Wake up, Anya. You must wake up!” No response.
Nadya turned anxious eyes to Karim who was standing in the doorway.
“We must get a doctor.”

“
No.” The reply was flat,
uncompromising. “She lives or she dies. That is the only
possibility.”

Fists clenched at her sides, Nadya bounced to
her feet. “You pig,” she hissed. “You give the girls drugs to make
them behave, then won’t lift a finger to save one from the
consequences. How can you live with yourself? How can you call
yourself a man?”

Dark eyes flashed a very cold fire. “I do not
provide the drugs, Misha does. If I could call a doctor without
being arrested, I would do so, but one foolish girl is not worth
the risk of all our lives. Misha would surely kill us before he’d
let us be arrested.” Karim’s mouth thinned to a straight line, his
words squeezed out like whips of steel. “Only a fool would not fear
his anger.”

“
So I am a fool,” Nadya snapped. But
she wasn’t. Cold, sick fear forced her to understand Karim’s
reasoning. His was the attitude of a soldier, an officer who had to
make choices of life or death. Anya was expendable.