Windswept (30 page)

He met her at the foot of the bed, kissed her, and reached for the robe’s sash. Once it was undone, he opened the garment and slid his hands inside around her waist. Her naked waist.

“Good,” he muttered against her lips.

“Good, what?” she asked when they finally parted.

“You didn’t put on a nightgown. I prefer you just as you are.”

She just grinned up at him and, waving at the bed, asked, “Which side?”

He pointed to the left side and they climbed into bed. He switched off the lamp and a soft glow from the security lights around the pool permeated the room through the sheer curtains--just enough to see her shape, her hair dark against the white pillowcase, and to find her lips with his. Leaning on one elbow over her, he kissed her and cupped her breast in his free hand.

When she returned his kiss, he grew hard again. When she moaned and turned to swing her leg over his, he pushed his erection against her.

“Oh,” she said.

“Oh,” he replied before he started kissing, licking, nibbling, and brushing his way down her body. This time he’d take it slowly, take time to savor, take her until she cried out his name.

And he did.

And she did.

And she fell asleep in his arms.

Chapter Twenty-One

The next morning Barrett woke up but didn’t open her eyes for a while. She was so comfortable lying next to Davis she didn’t want to move. She was on her back and he was on his side toward her with his bottom hand tucked under his pillow and the top splayed over her abdomen. She smiled; he evidently wanted to know exactly where she was. Or to keep her there.

She smiled more broadly as she replayed scenes from the night on the back of her forehead. As she suspected from his kisses, Davis had proven to be a consummate, passionate lover. He’d drawn reactions and feelings from her she hadn’t known she possessed. Neither of the other two men with whom she’d had sex came close to making her feel so, so . . . satisfied, or cherished, or aroused, or complete.

Now, in the hazy light of day, did she have any second thoughts about what she had done?

No, she didn’t, she decided. They would find mutual pleasure together during the summer. When she left, she’d have the research for several articles and a friend to see when she returned. She could and would keep her head on straight where Davis was concerned. And guard her heart.

Yes, especially the last.

She nodded to herself in confirmation of her decision and opened her eyes.

Yep, she was still in the big four poster. His furniture hadn’t been an hallucination. She cradled Davis’s hand in both of hers--he grunted and laced his fingers with hers--and sat up. She’d paid no attention at all to the room last night. Davis had more than filled her vision. Now she studied it in the dim morning light.

It was a large room, probably the length of the two offices below combined. On the windowless back wall opposite the glass one sat a large marble-topped dresser and a tall armoire that barely fit under what must be a ten-foot-high ceiling. The dark mahogany and fancy carvings in the furniture contrasted sharply, but in a complimentary manner somehow, with the abstract paintings and the glass wall overlooking the pool. The paintings picked up the colors in the oriental carpet; only at the edges could the light oak hardwood floor be seen.

The wall behind the bed held long slits of glass on either side to allow a view of the bayou behind the house. The living room wing to the east and the sheer white draperies kept the room shaded from the morning sun. Against the glass, two modern armchairs flanked an oval marble-topped table with a lamp on it.

All in all, there wasn’t much furniture for such a big room.

As she examined one of the paintings, she felt Davis shift. She looked down at him, and he put his free hand on her back and rubbed it gently.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile. With his dark beard stubble and disheveled hair, he resembled a pirate more than an eagle at the moment. A complacent, satisfied buccaneer.

“Good morning,” he replied in a low, velvet drawl. He searched her eyes for a moment, but seemed satisfied with what he saw as he tugged her down into his arms.

She relaxed against him, but kept hold of his hand. She had a question and didn’t want to be distracted before she had an answer. She gazed up at the top of the bed posts and wondered how to formulate her query.

She didn’t have to because he said, “You’re probably wondering about the furniture in this room, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes,” she admitted. “It’s quite a contrast to the rest of the house.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, almost as if he were putting off an answer, but he said, “I bought the house before I married Sandra. She decorated the living and dining rooms--and this room. The furnishings here were in keeping with those downstairs. I never let her touch the offices and she never got around to the kitchen or family room.”

He paused, took another deep breath, let it out. “When I caught her in this room in our bed with another man, I threw her out and all the room’s furniture with her. I slept in the room you’re in for a while. Then Granddaddy came for a visit, took a look around, and said I needed to sleep in my own bedroom. A couple of days after he want home, all you see here, except for the two chairs by the windows, arrived from Windswept. The bed, chest, armoire, and nightstands are a bedroom set Mary Maude had made in New York in the eighteen-fifties. She took it when she moved to the dower house after the war and Edgar Jr. married. The original set she and Edgar used stayed in the big house. Mary Maude must have liked a large bed. I had to have the mattress, springs and linens made to fit.”

His face very solemn, he raised up on an elbow and leaned over her. “This bed has a lot of history, Barrett, but where Sandra is concerned, it has none.”

She felt absurdly relieved to hear those words from him, but the last thing she wanted to talk about now was his ex, so she asked with as straight a face as she could muster, “Can I at least hope for a ghost in the wardrobe? An interview with a Jamison from the past would really help my research. Talk about a primary source!”

He started laughing, gave her a smacking kiss and rolled over, taking her with him until she was sprawled across him. “I’m afraid the only Jamisons around are living ones. And I’m the one you have to put up with.”

“I guess I’ll just have to manage, then.” She made herself comfortable on his hard body, not a difficult thing to do, she discovered, and kissed him. When they surfaced, she had captured his fully aroused erection between her legs.

“In the drawer,” he rasped between gulps of air.

She had to move off him to reach the drawer and its contents. Kneeling by his side, she tore open the foil-wrapped package and looked from the condom to him and back again. She’d never performed this particular task before, but how difficult could it be? She knew the basics and applied them.

Davis watched her as her earnest expression, slightly open mouth, and fumbles almost sent him into orbit. By the time she had him fully prepared, he was in throbbing pain. As she mounted, he grabbed her hips, positioned her, and pulled her down until he was completely sheathed inside her.

They both sighed at the contact.

She was so beautiful poised there above him, her brown curls going every which way and her pink nipples like raspberries, almost calling for him to taste them. She braced herself on her arms and bent down to kiss him. He reached up to fondle her breasts as she began a slow rise and descent along his stiff cock. Up and down, up and down.

It was heaven. It was hell.

This woman drove him crazy. Finally he couldn’t take anymore. He reached again to her hips and held them steady while he moved against her. She flung her head back and arched as the heat built between them. He felt himself get closer and closer to the peak and knew he wouldn’t be able to wait for her when she suddenly stiffened and climaxed around him. He fused her to him as he followed into sweet oblivion.

***

Sitting cross-legged on the office floor that afternoon, Barrett stared blindly at the letter in her hand. She was having a horrible time trying to concentrate, and she knew the reason. He was sitting two feet away from her.

They’d finally gotten up, but before she could put on her robe, he’d pulled her into the shower in his bathroom and made sure they were both thoroughly clean. They’d dressed and fixed themselves a breakfast of eggs and tamales. Davis said it had become a tradition of his to have Eva’s tamales after the party. He threw some nopalitos into the mix, which delighted her as she’d forgotten how good the slightly sour pickled cactus was with eggs.

While reading the Sunday papers, Barrett had decided to carry on with her planned activities as if “nothing” had happened. Her old self-instruction, “Be professional,” seemed to hold new import as she tried to stay on an emotional even keel. Keeping her hands off Davis when they were itching to touch wasn’t easy either.

As for him . . . although he had a possessive gleam in his eyes, he hadn’t touched her since the shower.

Well, what had she expected? He’d chase her around the kitchen table? Grab a grope while she was filling the coffee pot? Strip off their clothes and make love in the middle of the floor?

She certainly wasn’t going to do any of those things to him. But . . . wouldn’t it be fun . . . no, better not to think about it.

So, she’d tried during the morning to pull together the first article she had outlined, and, although she’d made fair progress, she’d given up after lunch when she’d found herself staring into space, thinking about Davis’s hands instead of life in nineteenth century Louisiana.

Inventorying a box required less concentration and focused her attention more concretely. When she’d pulled one into the office, Davis had looked up from his desk and offered to help. She’d accepted. For one thing, his aid would make the work go faster. For another, they’d be in the same room, where she could sneak little peeks at him. She only hoped the contents weren’t too boring for him.

Fortunately, this one contained a bushel of political correspondence between Edgar and prominent men in state and national government. The letters were gossipy, at times caustic, once or twice probably libelous. Davis had taken to reading the juicy parts aloud.

“Who’s this fellow?” he asked, holding out a letter and pointing to the signer.

She looked at the date and the signature and shook her head. “I don’t know, but the name’s familiar somehow. The deeper we get into this box, the more I think we have a potentially important cache here. But I don’t know for certain. I’d like to call in an expert on Southern and Louisiana antebellum political history to look these over. It would be faster than my researching the authors.”

“If you stop to find out who every correspondent is now, you’ll never get through the inventory. Call whomever you like--except for Glover.”

“Don’t worry. Besides, it’s not his area of expertise.” She paused to reflect for a moment. “I know a couple of people, one at LSU and the other at Southwestern Louisiana, who might be able to help. I’ll give them a call Monday or Tuesday.”

He filed the letter in its proper sequence and leaned back on his braced arms. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, why does Glover have it in for you?”

She thought a minute and sighed. “I think it must be a combination of events and circumstances. Horace has quite a reputation around the department as a ladies’ man. He’s been married and divorced three times, each time to and from a younger and younger woman. Until I arrived, or so I’ve been told, he never had anything to do with a History Department woman, even a secretary.”

Davis frowned and stated in a low, dry tone, “He made a pass at you.”

“Oh, he was very subtle about it in the beginning--happening to run into me in places, suggesting a cup of coffee between classes, asking my opinion about a question, offering to help me get settled in department matters. In a way, it was very flattering to be the object of attention from a well-known historian. Fortunately, the chairman of the department and I hit it off from the beginning, and he dropped a few hints to warn me about Horace. Since I wasn’t attracted to the man and was terribly busy creating lectures and grading, I didn’t have any problem turning him down.”

“A little rejection couldn’t be enough to bring out all his venom,” Davis put in.

“I wouldn’t think so either.” She shrugged. “He left me alone until this last school year. Then he started talking about how much ‘help’ he could be with tenure. I also overheard a couple of the secretaries say Horace was having trouble finding dates and how they hoped most of the campus women had his number by now.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “It was also last school year he suddenly announced he was changing the focus of his research from the eastern to the western theater of war. He said he’d studied all he needed to in Virginia and Georgia and wanted to look closely at the Mississippi River campaigns. A couple of our colleagues mentioned, rather unkindly, it didn’t matter what he researched, because he hadn’t published a well-received or ground-breaking book in several years and had lost his edge. One even called him “Has-Been Horace.”

“Glover told me he’d spoken to Granddaddy,” Davis said. “He could have called during the spring or summer of last year. The papers’ existence is well known in the parish, and LSU has hinted how much the university would like them. Granddaddy never did explain why he kept the papers, but Glover could have found out from a number of sources.”

“Then I started corresponding and visiting with Edgar, and Horace probably picked up the news from the department grapevine.”

“Yeah, and he started hitting on you as a conduit to Granddaddy,” Davis said with a disgusted expression.

“And when he couldn’t ‘charm’ either you or me, he turned on me.” She grinned at him. “And, thanks to you, and Bill, Martha, Peggy and Jim, he failed.”

“Damn right,” Davis said with an answering grin that included more than a little menace in it. “It was a pleasure to throw him off the property.”