A Perilous Eden (8 page)

His eyes were meeting hers just as they had in her dreams, and the intensity of his eyes and the brush of his fingers against hers were doing more to her than she had ever imagined any man could.

“May I?” he asked politely. She liked his voice. She liked the depth of it, the timbre, the way it seemed to swirl around her. He was wearing a tuxedo with a starched white pleated shirt and vest, and he couldn't have been more elegantly dressed. He wore the tux well. She might have thought that the very ruggedness of his appeal would make him stiff or uncomfortable in formal wear, but in fact the outfit enhanced his masculinity and made him all the more striking.

“Thank you,” she said, releasing the glass. He poured out a measure of punch, and when she took it from him she felt the brush of his fingers again. Once more their glances met, and she was fascinated by the fire that seemed to burn within his eyes, despite their ice-blue shade.

She sipped her punch, thinking that perhaps he would ask her to dance. Then she wondered why he had bothered to pour her punch, because he suddenly looked as if he disliked her. His gaze swept over her, and she thought that he was going to turn away. To stop him, she found herself speaking quickly, her hand extended to him. “I'm Amber Larkspur. Ted's daughter. You know my father. I saw you speaking with him.”

His brow arched, and he hesitated. Then his hand took hers. “I know. I've seen you with your father.”

A small smile curved her lips. She'd met secretive types before—Washington sometimes seemed filled with them—but seldom had she seen the attitude taken quite so far.

“Pardon me. I don't mean to be rude, but do you have a name?”

He smiled then, and she liked the smile. It was rueful and honest, and maybe hadn't been intended. “Michael Adams, Miss Larkspur,” he said very softly. And then, “Do you dance?”

“Well, certainly, Mr. Adams, I do.”

He kept her hand and led her to the dance floor on the terrace. The music had been fast; now it was slow, and he pulled her into his arms to the softly pulsing strains of a popular ballad. Her fingers fell upon the coarse fabric of his jacket, and she found herself inhaling the scent of the man, a clean scent, lightly touched with after-shave. His hand rested on the small of her back and held her close, but not too close; she wasn't uncomfortable at all. The fingers of his other hand curled around hers, and he led her across the floor, moving with a surprising grace. Just as his appearance in the tux had surprised her, so did the fact that he knew how to dance so well. How to hold a woman close, how to touch her.

Her head fell back slightly, and she looked into his eyes. She was startled by the intensity of his gaze, then felt as if the fire of it was flooding through her. A rose tint colored her cheeks as she realized that she was thinking about going to bed with this man again. She didn't know him at all, but when she looked at him, when she felt his touch, she wanted to forget the past and the future and imagine that the present could go on forever. He wasn't holding her too closely, and yet she knew that his thoughts were running dangerously parallel to her own. She knew from his eyes that though he might want to keep his distance from her, he was fascinated in spite of himself. He might not have wanted to give her even so much as his name, but strip away their environs, their hostess and the guests, the fabrics, the silks and the satins, the Chinese lanterns … strip it all down to the basics, and he wanted her, too.

She swallowed convulsively, thinking that they'd barely exchanged a few dozen words, and yet intimate, forbidden things were taking place between them. She wanted to pull away, to run from him as she had never run in her life. But stronger than the urge to run was the desire to know. To go on touching him. To find out where this might lead …

She needed to speak, to do something to break the tension between them. She moistened her lips and smiled, and yet she felt that there could be no small talk between them, that whatever she said had to be honest.

“I saw you in the park,” she said.

“Yes,” he told her.

“Are you with the government?”

He hesitated for a second. “Perhaps. I'm not sure yet. I'm thinking of taking a job.”

Security, Amber thought. It had to be a security position.

“I've been out of the country for a long time,” he supplied.

“Business or pleasure?”

He was quiet for a moment, his hand moving against the small of her back. He seemed to look down at her from a great height, and a shield of ice seemed to have fallen over his eyes. “You
are
forward, Miss Larkspur.”

“Am I?” And he didn't answer questions very well. But he'd been watching Ian Daldrin. He had to be considering a security position with the senator.

“Um. Business and pleasure,” he said. “And all over.”

“All over?”

“I've been all over the globe, Miss—”

“Amber. Please.” She felt as if he knew her inside and out, and he was still calling her Miss Larkspur.

He smiled suddenly. “‘Forever Amber'?” he queried softly. His words, his whisper, just touched her ear. “I saw the movie. Does your nature run so freely and passionately, too?”

“Now
you're
being forward.”

“Yes, but I gave you an answer.”

This was the time to end it, to pull away and never see him again. She would let him remain in her heart, a fantasy. But she didn't pull away. Instead she moved with him, moved on the air. She felt the dip and sway of the Chinese lanterns, felt his eyes, felt the magic of the colored lights rippling on the water. And she kept her gaze level with his.

She felt as if his hand was trembling slightly, as if he wanted to pull her closer. As if the frost had left his eyes for a brief moment. Then he did pull her close, and for a moment they touched so fully that she felt his startling heat and vibrance from her breast down to her thighs. Then he released her, and she realized the music had stopped.

“Amber!” She heard her father's voice. He was standing behind her, his tone sharp.

Michael Adams stepped away, but his eyes remained on her. “Mr. Larkspur,” he said, acknowledging her father's presence but still watching Amber. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Larkspur,” he said.

Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd. The music started again, and her father pulled her into his arms, but she was still staring after Michael.

“Amber!”

“What?” She looked into her father's eyes. They were troubled and severe.

“Stay—” He paused, swallowing. He hadn't told her what she could and couldn't do in years. “Stay away from—from Adams.”

“Why? Who is he?”

“You—”

“Security?”

“We … we haven't decided yet. Amber, he's dangerous.”

“It sounds as if you don't like him.”

“No, I do like him. I like him very much. I just want you to stay away from him.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Her father was silent for a long moment. “He was in Vietnam—”

“Dad! Half the men I know were in Vietnam!”

“Damn it, Amber, just listen to me for once. Stay away from Michael Adams. For my peace of mind.” Angry, he released her, and Amber found herself alone on the dance floor, staring after the second man to leave her there.

It wasn't long before she was claimed again. Timothy Hawkins, the youngest rep from the great state of Kansas, slipped up behind her and offered her a broad grin. “Amber! You're back in Washington! Is it too much to hope that you might be alone?”

“Very much alone, Tim,” she replied, accepting his arm. He whirled her around happily. He was tall, with friendly hazel eyes and a freckled face, and she liked him very much. But even as she smiled and laughed and responded to his questions, she wondered how it could feel so different to dance with him. No quickening breath, no slow fire touching her soul.

So Michael Adams was dangerous, in her father's estimation. But her father liked him; he had admitted that. He liked him—but he still thought he was dangerous.

She wondered whether she could make that matter or not.

He couldn't stay there. He couldn't talk to Daldrin or Larkspur or any of the others. He had to leave the terrace.

With a stiff Scotch in his hand, he hurried down one of the garden paths and came to a trellised arbor with a black wrought-iron bench. Sitting, he found himself loosening his tie. He was hot, burning up from dancing.

No, it wasn't from dancing. It was the woman.

What was it about her? She was attractive, yes. She had beautiful flowing light hair that smelled wonderful. Her shoulders were bare beneath the slim strips of the kelly-green silk she was wearing. Her skin was ivory, she was slim, with beautiful hollows and curves, and she had fit into his arms as he had rarely felt any woman do. There was warmth to her, there was laughter, and there was that flare of passion and determination and bravado within her eyes. Eyes the color of the Caribbean. Green and blue and beguiling. From the moment he had seen her across the room, he had known that he should stay away from her. She was Ted Larkspur's daughter, and he liked Ted Larkspur. And he wasn't going to fall in love; love was dead within him. But from the moment he had seen her tonight, he had known that he wanted her. Wanted to bed her. Wanted to be with her. He didn't want to know about tomorrow; he just wanted to have her, to feel her move beneath him. He had watched her on the dance floor, watched the length of leg displayed when her skirt swirled around her. Watched the laughter and the love when she looked into her father's eyes. But when she had looked into his eyes, he had seen more, much more. He had seen passion, seen electricity that could spark and burn and rise in sweet, fantastic flames. The room had faded, and he had known that he needed to leave. Now fury touched his soul. He couldn't have her, and that was that, and it was ridiculous to want to touch a woman so badly, any woman. The woman he had loved was gone, and others did not matter. One had to be the same as any other.

But she wasn't. His wanting wasn't logical, and it couldn't be reasoned away, and no matter how furious he grew with her, it wasn't her fault that she was beautiful and charismatic and had a smile that caused a quivering deep within him.

He swallowed a long gulp of Scotch, winced as it burned its way down to his gullet and turned to the house. From the shadow of the arbor he could see her again. She was with a younger man. He narrowed his eyes, quickly placing everyone he had met that night. Timothy Hawkins, the congressman from Kansas. A nice kid, if just a bit wet behind the ears. Still full of integrity and idealism. One day, maybe, he could be a force to be reckoned with—if he had the power and the charm.

She made a perfect match for Hawkins. She possessed the same charm, and she was laughing in his arms. Adam couldn't see the color of her eyes, and yet he felt that he could see their sparkle and sizzle. He could feel the sweep of her silken hair over his fingers, brushing his chin.

“Damn it!” he swore aloud, then chuckled. Toni would enjoy this. Maybe she would think he was alive at last.

“When I need it the least!” he muttered, but he stretched his legs out and leaned back, and he kept watching Amber dance.

Maybe it wasn't wrong to watch her, to want her.

No. To want any woman so intensely couldn't be right.

The punch was potent. Very potent. The dancing had made her hot, and the alcohol level in the punch hadn't helped a bit.

Determined to have a good time, Amber had danced and laughed and talked, then danced some more. Ian Daldrin had seemed depressed, so she had tried to spend time with him, talking, drawing him out. Josie and Myra had come, and they had talked about their plans and agreed to meet at the airport. Then she had danced with Timothy again. And then, hot and flushed, she had glimpsed the little arbor with its profusion of roses and started toward it for a few moments alone. The night had been difficult for her. She had learned long ago, for her father's sake, to smile through almost anything. But her smile, she thought, was fading fast.

Sipping her punch, she ducked beneath the spray of roses, then started, standing still as she realized that she was not alone. The light was behind her, and for a moment she didn't know who she was facing. Then she realized that it was Michael Adams. She could tell by his scent, by the way he was standing, by the electricity that seemed to charge the small arbor. He had been sitting, but he stood quickly when she arrived, and now he was staring at her.

“I'm sorry,” she said awkwardly. “I didn't mean to intrude.”

“You're not intruding,” he said quickly. It was a lie. But he didn't say more, nor did he move. He just stood there.

As her eyes became more accustomed to the light, she could see his face, could see the way he was looking at her. “I think I am intruding,” she said very softly. “I think you wish I would disappear into the air. Isn't that true?”

He was silent for a long moment before speaking. “Yes,” he said then.

She had started to turn away, but he caught her arm and swung her around. She came up flush with his body. His arm held her, and his eyes seared into her.

“And no,” he added softly.

She felt the warmth and the crush of his body, and the response she had forbidden herself came to life within her, fast fire lapping through her. She stared at his mouth and thought that it was a hard mouth, yet she wanted to know what it would feel like if he kissed her.

“Yes,” he said again very softly. “And … no.”

Then his lips touched hers. There was nothing soft about his kiss, nothing gentle. It was everything that she had imagined it might be: volatile and passionate and demanding, even shocking. His mouth closed over hers, his tongue demanding entrance, then stroking the inside of her mouth with an intimacy that suggested much more. She placed her hands against his chest, meaning to protest, but then there was no protest. He kissed her hard, and he kissed her long, probing, discovering with his tongue, touching her ever deeper, until she felt that her body had become a wall of flame. His fingers moved into her hair, tilting her head to meet his demand, then his hand moved over her body, pulling her closer. His fingers closed over her breast, and despite the silk of her gown and the lace of her bra, she felt the caress with such clarity that she was afraid she would fall. A whimper escaped her as his lips traveled to her throat, to the lobe of her ear, to her forehead, then back to her throat. She found herself held tightly in his arms as he sat, bringing her down with him. When she opened her eyes, she was sitting across his lap, his ragged breath touching her cheeks, his eyes on her with wary anger.