R Is for Rebel (13 page)

The moment of truth. Or half-truth, as the case may be. Eliot had been cooking up all sorts of honorable plans to tell Abigail how much he loved her and how much he wanted their first time together to be emblematic or meaningful… or something. But now that he had her, under him, breathless,
ready
, he knew his timing was off. She was still playing. Maybe she wasn't toying with him—he was a grown-up after all, not a victim—but she certainly wasn't nearly as far down the dark hole of obsession as he was. For a while, he could channel all of his too-strong desires into lingerie and barking silly orders to get her even more turned on. For a very little while.

He made love to her—of course that's what it was to him—but he did his best to provide her with the senseless, mind-blowing fornication he'd promised. She wasn't disappointed. The two of them lay spent and breathing heavily, limbs slung over limbs, recovering from the cresting physical release. Eliot hated himself for thinking of it as less-than-everything-he-wanted, but there it was. He'd never wanted Abigail-the-Plaything.

Eliot must have passed out for a few hours then woke up with a start around 4 a.m. Eventually giving up hope of falling back to sleep, he got up and stood by the side of the bed, his hands at his hips. He wondered what in the world he was going to do with this vexing, perfect woman as he pulled the sheet more closely around her, evoking a happy sigh of relief from her unconscious self.

He took a deep fortifying breath, and finally turned toward the minibar for a glass of water. He wasn't going to be asleep anytime soon, so he picked up the book he had been reading on the short plane ride to Paris and settled himself into one of the large armchairs at the other side of the suite. The position still afforded him a clear view of the delightful prospect that was Abigail Heyworth in the midst of her angelic spray of wild black curls and a drowsy look that could only be described as pure, sensual satisfaction.

Within a few minutes, Eliot was drawn back into the postapocalyptic thriller he'd picked up at the bookstore at Malpensa. He was taken aback when he looked up at the clock and nearly two hours had passed. He was bone tired and figured he'd give sleep another try, welcoming the opportunity to rejoin Abigail in the large king-size bed. He went to the bathroom and gave his teeth a quick brush.

He turned off the reading light and left one of the curtains open so the city lights and some of the night air could come into the room. The enormous bed made it perfectly possible for Eliot to slip in without disturbing Abigail, but she was a heat-seeking missile, and within seconds of his careful slide into his side of the bed, she was reaching and stretching and touching and shimmying herself along his length until she was happily pushed right up against him.

She was still very much asleep, but she inhaled deeply and muttered his name in a delightfully erotic tone. The idea of his sleep retreated further into the realm of the impossible. Eliot felt like a tree trunk unwilling to wake the climbing vine. Ultimately, he must have fallen into something approximating sleep because when the first strands of gray morning light came weakly through the window and the sound of the street sweeper rolled through the air, he opened his eyes to see a very awake Abigail staring intently at him.

“Can we do that again?” she whispered as her fingers danced lightly down his stomach and then farther below, until she was circling him with her hand.

“I'm in love with you, Abigail.”

She tried to steady her galloping heart, her hand frozen at that suddenly absurd location. “I was expecting a more honeyed seduction… lips like moist berries, eyes like liquid silver… that sort of thing… you've… well… I'm at a loss for words.”

“I wasn't planning on unnerving you. To tell you the truth, it just sort of crossed my mind and I thought I'd let you know.”

“Well, thanks. I guess.”

“Thanks?
You
guess?
”

Abigail pulled her hand out from under the covers in a matter-of-fact way and turned to face the ceiling. “You were the one who said no relationship dissection, remember?”

“That seems like a long time ago already.” Eliot knew he was on very dangerous terrain and proceeded with painful slowness. “I just thought”—he paused again—“I thought it best I should give you a heads-up on the nature of… my affection… I don't think I'll be able to play at a casual affair for very long.”

“I'll say. One night is traditionally considered
not
very
long
. Over before it's even begun, innit?” She tried to sound coquettish but it came out stilted. The air between them cracked with emptiness.

Eliot's hand dropped away from Abigail's arm, where he had been tracking up and down in a delicate continuous motion. He turned his gaze to the ceiling as well. “My mother warned me to have a care.”

Abigail raised one eyebrow and turned to face his profile. “Bronte gave me the same advice about you. I think her exact words were something along the lines of, ‘he's intense.'”

“How astute of her. Whereas I think my mother was implying that you would toy with me.”

Abigail turned quickly away. His words stung more than if he had slapped her swiftly across the face, and her cheeks burned as if he had.

Shame.

It was an unfamiliar and profoundly unpleasant realization. She was perfectly ashamed of herself. She had every intention of toying with him. Not like she was some sort of Mata Hari who dallied with international playboys for sport, but she had certainly intended on using him in some way. Some uncomplicated, unemotional, physical way. Didn't all men fall into bed with a willing female? A quick shag for the eager beginner? Her stomach soured at her own small-mindedness.

If Abigail was perfectly honest with herself, she had to admit that from the very beginning, her feelings for Eliot had been all tangled up in her desire to satisfy what she and Tully had once jokingly referred to as
heterosity
, their shorthand for heterosexual curiosity. Or at least, Abigail had
thought
that was why she wanted to stand near Eliot and sit next to Eliot at tedious dinner parties and walk on Caribbean beaches with Eliot. He was so preternaturally male, larger than life, broad, heroic. He seemed like a perfect primer.

But somewhere in the past few months, as he helped her down from her horse, or brought her that soda on the beach, or looked at her in the restaurant that very night, she was sure she was not dealing in idle curiosity any longer. Even so, she wanted to hold tight to the possibility of something light and frivolous. Why did he have to spoil all that?

She liked the idea of a passionate, physical, uncomplicated romp with Eliot. She was not so sure she liked the idea of a big, deep, demanding well of emotion.

Rolling out of the far side of the bed, Abigail walked into the bathroom to freshen up, then put on one of the heavy beige robes hanging on the bathroom door. She crossed the bedroom without looking directly at Eliot and continued out to the balcony, hoping that a bit of fresh morning air would lend a touch of clarity to what was rapidly devolving into a murky, sentimental mess. Abigail wished she knew where her room was in relation to Eliot's; at this point, she was nearly willing to take a chance at scaling along an adjacent balcony to make her escape, rather than having to go back into Eliot's room to apologize for being a selfish tart.

She stayed out on the balcony for what felt like an eternal quarter of an hour, but there was nothing for it. She was going to have to walk back in, in order to get out.

Eliot was holding a heavy crystal glass of water loosely in his long, beautiful fingers. He had put on his rumpled pale-blue collared shirt from last night, unbuttoned, along with a pair of worn jeans. He sat in that same large comfortable chair from last night, his long legs extended and crossed at the ankle. She stared at his bare feet for a few seconds. He looked as if he might have splashed water on his face, and his hair was a damnably sexy tousled mess.

“I guess I'll go then,” Abigail said hesitantly, wanting him to stop her or make her apologize or demand that she explain away whatever she had been unable to explain.

But instead he just looked at her, his face cool, hard, and shuttered.

And he waited.

She was torn between wanting to crawl into his lap, into him, to give herself over to every carnal fantasy she had been harboring for the past few weeks—months really, if she were in the mood to be honest, which apparently she was not—particular textures and positions and smells and ideas that had been distracting her for days, things she wanted to do to him and for him and with him. Things that she had only just begun to discover last night.

Abigail was torn between those desires and the very real possibility that she was just using Eliot—good, true Eliot—for some sort of sexual picnic. Her face heated again and it was as if he could follow every unspoken word of every tawdry thought.

“I just figured I could be one of the girls…” She tried, and failed, to convey a semblance of levity.

His gaze clouded and she realized he was truly and utterly furious. She had never seen him this way, and if she were not so ashamed of herself, she might have taken a moment or two to be terrified. Eliot was not a hater, but he despised a liar. In that moment, she saw herself reflected in his cold stare for the liar she was: maybe not a factual liar, but an emotional one certainly.

His voice was not one she had heard before. It was cruel. “Would you like me to
use
you, Abigail?”

The horror of it was that her first response, physical, was an unthinking, primal
yes.
Her breasts felt heavy and taut in response to his harsh words. She felt an involuntary quiver at her center. Her body simply called to his. Her body didn't care about conscience or manipulation or cruelty. Or, perhaps, one day, she would think about it long enough to realize that her body knew much more about those things than her overwrought, immature, theory-filled brain was able to concede. Manipulation?
Yes
, her body screamed,
let
Eliot
manipulate
the
hell
out
of
you
.
Stop
thinking,
you
stupid
woman! Cruelty?
Her body taunted.
Yes, have Eliot show you the very limits of what you can stand, what we—body and mind, finally united—can bear
.

The farthest reaches of abasement, submission, loss of control, giving of control. Consent.
Concede, Abigail
. Her treacherous body hissed the suggestion like the last temptation.

Then she blinked away the strange lure of forbidden desires that she was trying to convince herself had to be
wrong
. But they hadn't felt wrong when Eliot touched her and ordered her about last night. She was a strong, independent, modern woman. That kind of submission and consent were the antithesis of everything she believed in, weren't they? Her nape was tingling where the knot of the black leather cord was caught in a tiny strand of hair.

Eliot watched her, watched the wheels of her thought process play across her eyes—first lit by the spark of desire and then dimmed by the leviathan pallor of fear. He saw the exact moment fear won, when she turned inexorably away from that tempestuous black sea of brutal, unreined passion they could have shared. For a few moments there, he thought he saw clear through to some dark beautiful place where she understood him and they would be free of… everything. Some place of abject truth, removed of every societal code, every gender constraint, every preconceived notion. Wild.

And then he saw her emotional retreat. She wasn't going to go there. Or, at least, she wasn't going to go there with him now, knowing he was a fool in love with her. She probably would have done any kinky thing he could think of if he'd been cool and playful, erotic and empty. Instead, the bright silver light in her diamond eyes turned to pale, gunmetal gray right there in front of him. She slipped back into a world of fear, or perhaps a healthy caution, if he was feeling generous. A world where people stayed busy, alert, moving, bustling, the better to keep their roaring passions in check.

He wanted to kill her. For a split second, less than a split second, even, he understood that often clichéd phrase
crime
of
passion
. It had never rung true for him, this idea that you could love someone so much that only their destruction would ease the pain of loving them. How could she be such a despicable liar? So completely dissociated from what was passing between them?

She had changed back into her black skirt and her mother's shirt, but she no longer had a bra. He'd seen to that. When his eyes raked her body—naked to him, even in clothes—her nipples tightened and protruded through the thin fabric of her black shirt. He took it as the smallest, meanest concession that her body, at least, had no need to prevaricate.

***

Abigail briefly considered mentioning that she despised herself more than he could ever possibly despise her, but figured it would be of little consolation to either of them. She quickly bent to pick up her shoes, then grabbed her slim purse, and walked slowly, dreadfully, to the door. She didn't bother to wipe away the stupid tear that fell down her left cheek.

She pulled the door shut and tried to catch her breath, leaning back against the cool metal. A part of her still wished he'd come after her, to swing the door open with a violent pull behind her back, to force a confession she didn't even understand.

Little pieces of the truth were already starting to coalesce, forcing themselves into her mind. At base, she didn't have the courage to admit what she really wanted.