Sweet Revenge, Page 30

  his hands moved over her like water. Even when his mouth fit over her breast and her body arched in reaction, there was only pleasure. Waves of it.

  She smelled of smoke and silk and secrets. Enough to drive a man mad. She touched, but cautiously. Though her response was everything a man could wish for, he sensed a knot of tension remaining. She was building to a peak he knew she couldn’t understand. Part of her mind was holding back, perhaps wary of the price. Where there was intense pleasure, there was intense vulnerability. Murmuring, he covered her mouth with his. Hers opened, so that her tongue moved in an experimental dance with his.

  The tastes were new to her, and yet … familiar. The feel of his body moving against, fitting itself to, sliding over hers wasn’t foreign or frightening as she’d expected. She didn’t experience the violation she’d been prepared for when he touched what no man had touched.

  Then there was more, more than pleasant sensations, more than easy discovery. Her breath grew shallow and she struggled for air. Her skin, so sensitized by each stroke, heated until even the breeze flitting through the open windows couldn’t relieve it. Helplessness. It was something she’d sworn never to feel, not at the hands of a man. She struggled against it, against him, as the heat gathered, knotted, then expanded in her center.

  Here was the pain, but nothing like any pain she’d known. She fought against it while she fought for it. She clawed at the sheets in a desperate attempt to find her balance.

  Slowly, he skimmed his hand up her thigh, feeling the tremor of each separate muscle. And he found her, hot and moist. There was an instant of resistance, a strangle of breath as sensation intensified. Her body contracted, then on a moan of astonished release went lax.

  From that moment she was trapped, greedy for whatever she could feel, desperate for all he could teach. Her blood pumped hot, fast, and close to the surface as she wrapped herself around him. There was a freedom here she embraced, as she embraced him. There was trust. She opened herself to it as she opened to him.

  When he slid into her there was shock, there was pleasure, one for the other. He couldn’t have told her that at that moment, with her body cupped around him, he was more vulnerable than he’d ever been and more willing to risk.

  Later, she lay quiet beside him. It shouldn’t have meant so much. It couldn’t change anything. She knew it was foolish to feel differently. In her country a woman of her age would have been long married, and if God were kind, would have borne children. What had happened tonight was simply a natural function. A woman was born to give a man pleasure and sons.

  She was thinking like a woman of Jaquir! The shock of realization left a bitter taste in her mouth, one that overpowered the lingering flavor of the man beside her. She started to shift away, perhaps to run. Then his arm draped over her.

  Braced on his elbow, he studied her face. There were still secrets there, and, beneath the glow of quenched passions, reservations he couldn’t guess at.

  “Did I hurt you?” It wasn’t his first thought, but he was no more ready to share his secrets than she.

  “No, of course not.”

  He touched her face. Though she didn’t shift away, neither did she return the touch. Because her skin had cooled, he drew the sheet up, waiting for her to say something, to give him any sign of how she felt, or what she needed. The silence stretched out and drew into knots.

  “You won’t forget me, you know,” he murmured. “One never forgets the first lover.”

  There was just enough bite in the words to let her see he was holding his temper, but not enough for her to recognize hurt. “No, I won’t forget you.”

  He rolled her until she lay across him, her hair curtaining both of them. Their eyes met. There was a challenge, acknowledged and accepted. “Let’s make sure of it,” he told her before he brought her mouth to his.

  The sun was high and white when she woke. There was an ache, dull and somehow sweet, through her body to remind her of the night. She wanted to smile, to snuggle back in bed and hug it to herself like an accomplishment, like a bag full of the finest diamonds. But there was still a part of her, a part dug deep, that believed a woman’s submission in bed meant submission everywhere.

  He was sleeping beside her. She hadn’t thought he would stay the night, or hold her throughout it. Nor had she known how comforting it could be to lie awake in the dark and listen to his steady breathing. She knew now how good it felt to study his face in the morning sunlight.

  Tenderness. She felt it, fought against it. Her fingers itched to run along his cheek, to comb through his hair. It would be so satisfying to touch him now, as if what had happened in the night had been real and important.

  Cautious, she uncurled her fingers from her palm and started to reach out. Her fingertips just brushed his skin when his eyes blinked open. Adrianne snatched her hand away.

  Even in sleep his reflexes were quick. Philip wrapped his fingers around her wrist and brought her hand to his lips. “Morning.”

  “Good morning.” Awkward. She felt foolishly, miserably awkward. “We slept later than I intended.”

  “That’s what vacations are for.” In one smooth move he rolled on top of her to nuzzle at her neck. “And other things.”

  She closed her eyes. It was harder, much harder than she ever had believed to fight the need to give. If possible, she wanted him more now than she had during the night. Love, like any indulgence, was craved more after the first taste.

  “Like breakfast?” she said, willing her voice to be light.

  After nibbling on her lips, he drew back. “Hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “Shall I ring up room service?”

  “Yes—no,” she said, and already hated herself for the deception. “I’d really like to shower and change, then I’d been toying with the idea of diving, going out to Palancar.”

  “Have you hired a boat?”

  “Not yet.”

  When he sat up she shifted, just slightly, so their bodies no longer touched. “Why don’t I see to it? I’ll go have a shower myself, then meet you in the dining room in an hour. We can take off after we eat.”

  “Perfect.” She managed a smile. “I might be a bit longer than that; I need to call Celeste.”

  “Not too much longer.” He kissed her, and because she was already regretting, she poured herself into it. With a murmur of approval he drew her closer. “A person can go for days without food.”

  Her laugh was only a little strained. “Not this person.”

  She waited until she was alone to bring her knees up and drop her head on them. It shouldn’t hurt. Doing what was necessary shouldn’t hurt. Oh, but it did. Tossing the sheets aside, she rose quickly and began to move.

  He gave her an extra quarter of an hour as he sat by the window in the dining room and watched the sun worshipers oil up. He knew there were women who did not value time. But, finally, he reminded himself that Adrianne wasn’t one of them. Holding back impatience, he lingered over a second cup of coffee. A man was in bad shape when he started counting the minutes. Philip picked up the rose he’d set beside her plate. He was in very bad shape.

  More had happened to him the night before than passion and release. Things had clicked inside him, and settled unalterably into place. He hadn’t been looking, hadn’t even wanted to look for someone who fit him so perfectly. But there was no going back. For her either, he thought as he lit a cigarette. She might think she could pick up her life where she’d left it off before him, but he was going to prove her wrong.

  He’d made his decision, perhaps the first in his life that hadn’t been self-serving or with an eye to profit, but he’d made it. And dammit, he wasn’t going to waste the rest of the morning waiting to start convincing her it was the right one.

  He crushed his cigarette, leaving it smoldering and his coffee cooling as he strode out of the dining room. He was feeling uneasy by the time he got to her door. Lovesick fool, he called himself, with not a little disgust. He r
apped, harder than was necessary, then tried the door when she didn’t answer. It was locked, but he had his door key in his pocket, along with a credit card and a thin coin. He didn’t bother to glance around as he went to work.

  When he opened the door, he knew He was already swearing when he went to the closet to pull it open. It was empty, but for her scent. There was a trace of powder on the vanity counter, but the bottles and tubes were gone.

  He let the closet door slam, then jammed his hands into his pockets. For a moment there was only rage and impotence. Never a violent man, he knew then what it was to anticipate murder with relish. Subduing his emotion, he walked to the phone and dialed the front desk.

  “How long ago did Lara O’Conner check out?” He waited, fantasizing violence and retribution. “Forty minutes? Thank you.”

  She could run, he thought as he replaced the receiver. But she’d never run fast enough.

  * * *

  As Philip vowed his own revenge, Adrianne buckled her seat belt. Her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. They weren’t red-rimmed. She hadn’t allowed herself tears. But there was regret in them. He would be angry, she thought. Then he would go on—as she would, as she had to. Emotions, the kind he could pull out of her, had no place in her life. Until The Sun and the Moon was in her hands, there was no room for anything but revenge.

  Chapter Twenty

  It had snowed in London. The streets were gray with slush. Along the curbside it was piled high, blackened like coal and every bit as ugly. But on the rooftops it lay as pristine as in an untouched meadow and glittered even in the sluggish sun. A stiff wind tore at the coats and hats of pedestrians who hurried along, hunched over, hanging on to whatever threatened to whip away. It was the kind of cold that penetrated bone and begged for spiced ale. Hours before, Philip had been under the streaming Mexican sun.

  “Here’s the tea, dear.” Moving quickly from the long habit of trying to catch up, Mary Chamberlain came in to her own cozy parlor. Turning from the window, Philip took the loaded tray from her. All of his boyhood favorites were on it. As dark as his mood was he had to smile. Mary had always tried to spoil him when she’d had the means, and when she hadn’t.

  “You’ve made enough for an army.”

  “You should offer your guest something when he comes.” She took a seat by the tea table, then lifted the pot to pour. It was a fine Meissen tea set, with pale pink roses and gold leaf. She always felt very grand using it. “Before he does, I thought we could have a cup together and a little chat.”

  She added a dollop of cream to his tea and remembered he hadn’t used sugar since he’d been twelve. The fact that he was past thirty still amazed her. She hardly felt more than that herself. Like any mother, she considered her son too thin and set two white frosted cakes on a plate for him.

  “There now.” Pleased, she stirred a healthy dose of sugar in her own cup. There was nothing quite like hot sweet tea on a winter afternoon. “Isn’t this cozy?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Drink your tea, dear. It’s always a shock to the system to travel from one climate to another.” And whatever was really troubling him would come out sooner or later.

  He obeyed automatically, studying her over the rim. She’d put on weight in the last few years. Flattering weight, Philip thought. She’d always been too thin when he’d been a child. Her face was comfortably round, and if her skin lacked the dewiness of a girl’s, it had the glow of a mature woman’s. A few lines, certainly, but they came as much from laughing as from age. Mary had always been one for laughing. Her eyes were a clear, blameless blue.

  He’d inherited his looks not from her, but from the man who had swung in, then out of her life. As a child it had bothered him a great deal, so much so that he’d watched every man, from the postman to the prince regent, looking for a resemblance. To this day he wasn’t sure what he’d intended to do if he’d found one.

  “You’ve changed your hair.”

  Mary fluffed it. The gesture was flirtatious and totally innate. “Yes. What do you think?”

  “That you’re beautiful.”

  She laughed, full and rich and delighted. “I’ve a new hairdresser. His name’s Mr. Mark. Mr. Mark, can you imagine?” She rolled her eyes and licked a dab of frosting from her finger. “He flirts so nicely, you just have to give him an extra tip. All the girls are wild about him, but I think he might be of another persuasion.”

  “Episcopalian?”

  Humor danced in her eyes. Her Phil had always been a devil. “Yes. Now …” Settling back with her tea, she smiled. “Tell me all about your vacation. I hope you didn’t drink the water. You hear such foul things about it. Did you have a good time?”

  He thought of crawling through ducts, hiding in closets, and of making love, leisurely love with Adrianne. “It had its moments.”

  “Nothing quite like a winter vacation in the tropics. I still remember when you flew me down to Jamaica in the middle of February. I felt decadent.”

  That had been a side benefit of the de Marco heist, “And kept the natives restless.”

  “I thought I behaved like a very proper British matron.” Then she giggled. If there was one thing Mary would never be, it was matronly. “I’m thinking of taking a cruise myself. Perhaps the Bahamas.” She spotted Chauncy, the fat slug of a cat she’d adopted years before. Before he could leap on the tray she poured cream into a saucer for him. “That lovely Mr. Paddington’s invited me.”

  “What?” Brought back with a thud, Philip stared at her. Beside them, the cat lapped greedily. “Run that through again?”

  “I said I was thinking of going to the Bahamas with Mr. Paddington. Chauncy, you’re such a pig.” Soft-hearted, she dropped half a cake on the saucer. He took it in one pounce.

  “Go on a cruise with that oily old lecher? That’s ridiculous.”

  Mary debated having another cake herself. “Mr. Paddington’s a very respected member of the community. Don’t be a noodle, Phil.”

  “I’ve no intention of seeing my mother ravished on the high seas.”

  “Oh, my—what a lovely thought.” Laughing, she leaned over and patted his hand. “In any case, dear, you wouldn’t see. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you? I hope it’s a woman.”

  He rose, impatient with tea and cakes, to stalk the room. As always, Mary had loaded a Christmas tree with whatever ornaments struck her fancy. There was no theme to it, no harmony of color. She had everything from plastic reindeer to porcelain angels. Philip pulled off a bit of tinsel to run it through his hands.

  “It’s just business.”

  “I’ve never seen you walk the floor over business. Could it be that sweet girl I spoke with on the phone? Phoebe Spring’s daughter?” When he snapped the string of tinsel in two, Mary all but rubbed her hands together. “Oh, that’s wonderful.”

  “There’s nothing wonderful about it, so you can stop smelling orange blossoms.” He came back to slump in the chair. “What are you smiling at?”

  “I think you’re in love. Finally. How does it feel?”

  He scowled down at his feet, more than a little tempted to kick the cat. “Rotten.”

  “Good, good. That’s just how it should feel.”

  Unable to do otherwise, he laughed. “You’re always a comfort to me, Mum.”

  “When can I meet her?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a problem.”

  “Of course there is. So there should be. Real love requires problems.”

  He doubted if love of any kind had a two-hundred-and-eighty-carat diamond and a pearl beyond price to deal with. “Tell me what you know about Phoebe Spring.”

  “Oh. She was glorious. There’s no one today who can compare with her, the glamour, the—presence.” Just remembering made her sigh. She’d had dreams of her own about being an actress, a star. Then there’d been Philip, and she’d settled for selling tickets to films rather than being in them. It never occurred to her to regret. “You know, most cinema
stars now look like ordinary people—a bit prettier perhaps, a bit sleeker, but so could anyone with a bit of fuss. Phoebe Spring was never ordinary. Wait, I’ll show you.”

  She was up and moving quickly into another room. Philip heard her rummaging, shifting boxes. Something thudded. He only shook his head. His mother was an obsessive collector, a saver. There had always been bits of colored glass, old swatches of material, shelves of salt shakers, a drawer of old movie stubs.

  In Chelsea the windowsills had been lined with little plaster animals. Pets hadn’t been allowed, so in her usual way Mary had compensated. He could still remember her laboriously clipping and pasting pictures of everyone from the royal family to the latest film god. They’d replaced the traditional family album for a woman who had had no one but herself and a small boy.

  She came back blowing dust from a large red scrapbook. “You know how I kept books on my favorite celebrities.”

  “Your star books.”

  “Yes.” Unashamed, Mary sat down and opened it. When Chauncy jumped on it, she tut-tutted and patiently set him back on the floor. “This is Phoebe Spring. Look here, this picture would have been taken at the premiere of her first movie. She couldn’t have been more than twenty.”

  He moved over to sit on the arm of her chair. The woman in the picture had her hand on the arm of a man, but you didn’t notice him. Only her. Her dress was some fantasy of sequins and sparkles