A Thrill to Remember (15 page)

Caleb checked his watch: 8:05.

His heart hammered and he willed Meggie to appear in the doorway. He had positioned himself with his back to the far wall so he would know the minute she stepped over the threshold.

What if she didn’t show? What then?

Caleb bit down on his thumbnail. She simply had to come. His need for her was all-consuming, and so intense he didn’t think he could stand the disappointment if she never arrived.

And in that dread-filled moment, she appeared.

She looked breathtakingly beautiful in the red-and-black flamenco outfit he’d had delivered to apartment. Her hair was swept off her neck and decorated with a mantilla, and she wore the black leather mask he had included in the box.

Moisture sprang into his mouth and his stomach clamped tight. In that moment, he knew. He wanted to have children with her. And grandchildren. He wanted to be with Meggie Scofield for the rest of his life.

He should have seen it coming. Should have known this infatuation with her was much more than physical. He had tried to use sex as a release from his distracting fantasies. Instead of freeing him, however, making love with her had only dug him in deeper.

Without her, he was lost.

She appeared bewildered, sliding her gaze around the club, taking in the band’s accomplished horn section, the clutch of colorful dancers writhing on the dance floor, the intoxicatingly exotic lighting. As Caleb stalked toward her, she nervously reached up a hand to pat her hair, making sure her mantilla was staying in place.

When she spotted him, her mouth curled up in a smile of relief, and he found himself grinning like some fool in love. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and when he reached out to take her elbow in his palm, he noticed a telltale pink flush spread up her neck, and her swift intake of breath.

“You came,” he exclaimed, and leaned in close to brush his mouth over hers in greeting.

He’d meant the kiss to be light, a hint of welcome, of what was to come. But the minute his flesh touch hers, it was seared. Not to taste her would have been a sin of the highest order, and apparently Meggie agreed because she returned his kiss with a ferocity that rocked him to the soles of his boots.

He thought of the rented room upstairs and his body temperature notched upward. His impulse was to scoop her into his arms, carry her up to the room and get her naked as quickly as possible.

With a great internal struggle, he denied the impulse. He was going to seduce her tonight as no man had ever seduced her, and when his mask was removed and she learned his true identity, she would not be able to deny her real feelings for him.

He would seduce her not only with the dance of love, but with all his heart and soul. Caleb was ready to lay everything on the line and take the greatest risk of his life.

“I almost didn’t come,” she confessed. “But I can never resist the opportunity to dance.”

“Or play games?”

“Or play games.” She smiled.

“Then we shall dance, belladonna. And play. Until dawn if you desire.”

He signaled the band with a coded message he had worked out with them earlier. It had cost him a handsome tip, but the cue was worth it. Smoothly, the band segued from the mambo into the tango.

Caleb bowed low from the waist and offered Meggie his hand with a courtly flourish. The color riding her cheeks deepened, but she readily accepted his arm and he guided her proudly out onto the dance floor.

The hauntingly dramatic music swept over them with its hypnotic rhythm. Images of all the romantic movies he had ever seen featuring the tango swept through his head. Caleb let himself go, giving over completely to the dance, caught up in the moment when fantasy and reality merged into an idyllic blur.

Meggie inclined her head and gave him a coy smile. “You’re an excellent dancer, Don Juan.”

“We have only just begun.”

At his inscrutable words, Meggie felt her self-control slip even future. The man knew how to charm. She shouldn’t have come, but now that she was here, she was glad she had ignored the common sense that had dictated her life up until the moment she’d met Don Juan. She gave herself over to the craziness.

Living la vida loca.

She danced with Don Juan as she had never danced with another man. They moved in perfect unison, their bodies pressed close together, stepping in tandem with a smooth fluidity.

A heated calm seeped through her body, replacing her earlier nervousness. She experienced a blissful sense of homecoming, a wondrous peace unlike anything she’d ever known. Her confusion and doubts about coming here vanished as surely as darkness at dawn.

In that single fragment of time, she understood the mystery of creation, recognized the cosmic connection between herself and Don Juan. They were one soul, one entity, even more surely than when they’d made love. His eyes remained locked on hers and she could not look away. Nor did she want to.

Step, step, step, step. They tangoed, never missing a beat.

Everyone else had left the dance floor. The other dancers stood on the sidelines, watching in admiration. Meggie barely noticed their audience. All she focused on was Don Juan, as the scent of his sexy body dominated her senses. It seemed so utterly natural to be encircled in his arms. Even more natural to press her cheek against his and close her eyes.

Time ticked by. She heard the throb of his heart and, overlaying that, the mesmerizing tango beat.

The music and his heartbeat became one sound, strumming with a growing intensity that encompassed her mind, body and soul. The sensation leaped beyond surreal and bordered on budding rapture.

And when he dipped her, she felt her brain short-circuit. She wanted him. No matter how foolish, how stupid, how irrational it might be to sleep with this man again—especially since she was also having sensual feelings for Caleb—she simply could not resist. She had to have Don Juan one last time before she could relinquish her obsession and move on with her life.

They danced for what seemed like hours as one spicy salsa song flowed smoothly into another. From Gloria Estefan’s rousing rendition of the conga to the exuberant cha-cha-cha to the sensuously flirtatious rumba, their bodies brushed, touched, seared. Their clothes grew damp with passion and perspiration.

Not once did they take their eyes off each other. Their faces were hidden by the masks, but their souls…through the simmering heat of their melded pupils, they laid their souls bare to each other.

Throb, throb, throb.

The relentless beat pushed them higher and higher. Drums, saxophone, trumpet, keyboard. The instruments bloomed, a musical bouquet of sensual sound.

Their passion for each other escalated with each step they took, drawing them deeper and deeper into a vortex of sexual hunger.

When Meggie swirled, her skirt eddied about her legs in a wild, compelling flash of red satin and black lace. She felt the material slap at her shins, the back of her legs, saw frank desire in the eyes of the other men lining the dance floor.

She felt incredibly beautiful, and for that lofty feeling she could never repay Don Juan. He was such a splendid partner, an utterly charming companion. And she knew he made her look like a much better dancer than she was.

With him, dancing seemed effortless, magical. On and on they danced, until the band played the tango once more. As Meggie kept gazing past his mask and into those blue eyes filled with the promise to give her a night to remember, she knew she would never forget the Mystery Room, the tango or him.

When the song ended, she stopped dancing and splayed her palm over his chest. “I simply must have some water.”

“But of course.”

He guided her to a table at the back of the club; several of the masked and costumed patrons complimented their dancing skills as they went past.

“I will be right back,” he whispered, low in her ear, and then departed for the bar.

Tilting her head, Meggie admired the swagger of his leather-clad hips as he walked away. The man had it going on. No doubt about it. His butt was even cuter than Caleb’s, who definitely possessed one primo heinie.

Immediately, Meggie felt disloyal to her old friend. She shouldn’t compare Caleb to Don Juan. It was like comparing Granny Smiths to Clementines. Caleb was Caleb and Don Juan was Don Juan. Complete opposites in temperament and comportment.

She wondered for a moment who Don Juan really was, but then quickly squelched the thought. She didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to unearth something better left buried.

Don Juan returned a few minutes later with two tall glasses of iced water. He sat beside her and took a long drink from his glass. Meggie watched him swallow and realized she was in deep when she found even that simple action incredibly stimulating.

The delicate material of his white, puffy-sleeved shirt clung damply to his masculine chest, and Meggie felt her insides slowly unravel.

His face was flushed from the heat of dancing, and a droplet of water glinted on his lower lip. She wanted to lean over and lick it off, watch the flicker of sexual arousal leap to life in his eyes.

When she realized that, without even trying, he equally mesmerized the women seated at the next table, Meggie had to curl her fingers into her palms to keep from getting jealous. Good thing he was only her temporary lover and not her boyfriend. She would have a hard time dealing with this kind of feminine adoration on a regular basis, especially since Don Juan was such a powerful flirt.

Loyalty is something you would never have to worry about with Caleb, a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind. Now there is a one-woman man.

Meggie pushed the thought away. She still wasn’t ready to deal with her budding feelings for Caleb. Those emotions scared her too much, because she knew he was a man she could actually build a life with.

But Caleb had another woman, and he’d been avoiding her with a fierce diligence ever since she’d kissed him atop the Space Needle. She sighed. She had certainly made a mess of that.

You can’t expect all risks to pay off.

The most she could hope for was self-discovery, and she’d certainly found that.

Don Juan placed his hand over hers. The familiar jolt of electricity shot through her. She raised her head and met his stare.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“You seem unhappy. Is it me?”

“Not at all.”

She smiled, trying hard to dispel the sad wisp of longing in her heart. She wasn’t right for Caleb and she knew it. She was older than him. She had a life here in the city. He needed a woman his own age or younger, an earthy type who would embrace life in the wilderness.

Don Juan lifted her hand to his mouth and slowly began kissing each knuckle and then running his tongue over her skin until her fingers tingled with the fire of his masculine heat.

If Caleb could see her now, would he be shocked by her indiscretions?

Probably.

What was happening to her? Why did she keep thinking about Caleb when she was in this exotic club with a dashingly charismatic man who impressed her with his flashy dance moves? She was very confused and she knew it. But this was the last time she would see Don Juan. She’d best make the most of their final encounter.

“This club is also an inn,” he murmured, low and husky, in his devastating accent. “And I have reserved us a room. Would you like to go upstairs with me now?”

HE LED HER UP the narrow staircase illuminated only by wall scones holding red bulbs. When they reached their room on the second floor, Don Juan did not turn on the lamp, but the curtain was open and a soft glow from the streetlights fell across a four-poster, king-size bed with a leather upholstered headboard.

Closing the door behind them with a soft click, he pulled her into his arms and ran the tip of his tongue over her lips, gently probing the warm recesses of her mouth.

She caught his head in her palms and sank her fingers in his raven hair. She melted into his arms, offering herself to him and giving without restraint.

A deep, guttural sound of pleasure slipped from his throat, a hungry, greedy noise that raised the hairs on her arms and filled her with a deep sexual need.

This might be wrong, but heaven help her, nothing had ever felt so right.

“What game are we playing tonight?” he asked. “The choice is yours.”

What game indeed?

He understood her need for fantasy. Her mind hopped from one scenario to another. Since this was absolutely the last time she was going to be with him, Meggie craved a thrill to remember—a provocative memory she could carry with her to the grave.

Her mind snagged on one idea, and when the mere thought of it caused her knees to weaken and her pulse to grow thready, she knew what she wanted.

“I want you to tell me what to do,” she whispered, trembling with excitement as the new sex game unfurled in her brain.

“You want me to command you to do things to me?”

Yes. She wanted him to be in control. She needed to relinquish the reins, allow him to lead her to a place of sexual discovery where she had never dared enter.

“Tonight, I am your slave. You are my master. I must do whatever you tell me.”

“Are you sure? This is a perilous game, indeed.”

Meggie shivered and whispered, “I know. That’s why I want it.”

“You are a goddess,” he murmured.

“No. I am a slave. I am here to do your bidding. What is your pleasure, master?”

“If you are certain.”

“I am.”

“Take off your clothes.” His voice changed, grew rough, dark and demanding. The shift in him both thrilled and scared her.

With shaky hands, Meggie slowly removed her clothing.

Don Juan sat in a wooden, hard-backed chair positioned in front of the window. He said not a word, but watched her with a hard-edged gaze.

She kicked off her high-heeled shoes and fumbled with the buttons on her dress, her hands perspiring so much her fingers kept slipping.

When she was finally down to her black lace bra and thong panties, Meggie discovered she was reluctant to go further—whether from nervousness or a desire to prolong the game, she couldn’t say. Probably a bit of both.

Don Juan was massively aroused, a fact his tight-fitting leather pants made clearly evident. He suddenly seemed very dangerous, and she didn’t know what to expect. After all, she didn’t really know the guy, had no idea what he was capable of, even though they had intimately explored each other’s bodies.

She crossed her arms over her chest and cowered.

“Come here.”

Meggie hesitated.

“Come here, slave. Don’t make me repeat myself or there will be dire consequences.”

He stared at her with such arrogant disregard, his haughty eyes enshrouded by that mask, that Meggie almost stopped the game by crying out, “Enough.” But at the same time she was panicking, she felt the crotch of her panties growing decidedly moist.

“Now!”

Tentatively she inched across the room to where he sat enthroned on his chair.

“On your knees.”

Slowly she slid to the floor, her pulse jackhammering in her head. Ribbons of sensation streamed through her when she saw just how turned on he was. She licked her lips.

“Now untie my pants.”

No sweet croons of “belladonna.” No soft murmurs, no tender touches. But she had asked for this and her body was swamped with a degree of stimulation she’d never before reached. The thick wetness in her panties seeped down her thighs.

She untied his pants and tipped her head upward to study his face. His jaw was stiff and uncompromising. Pale lines of strain bracketed his mouth. The mask covered half his face, hiding much of his emotion.

What kind of man lurked beyond that facade?

He reached out and grazed her chin with the rough pad of his thumb. “Do I excite you, slave?”

“Yes, master. I am wet for you.”

“Pull down your panties and let me see.”

She hooked her thumb beneath the waistband of her panties and self-consciously edged them over her hips and down her thighs.

“Straddle me.”

Trembling, she did as he commanded, placing one leg on either side of his thigh and resting her bare bottom against his leather pants. With a forefinger, he stroked between her legs, brusquely caressing her heated wetness.

Meggie tossed her head at the abruptness of the experience. His fingers curled inside her and she almost came right then and there.

“Do you want it rough?”

“You are the master. I am the slave. My only wish is to please you.”

“Then kiss me.”

His breath flew from his body in a smothered rush of sound as her mouth covered his. She tasted his hunger, felt his desperation. The kiss claimed them both, a whirlwind feeding on its own power.

The next moments passed in a desperate flurry as Don Juan lifted her from him, stripped off his clothes, sat back down and pulled her backward, into his lap. For the first time she realized he could see their reflection in the mirror running the length of one wall.

A fresh thrill shot through her.

His nipples were adjacent to her shoulder blades; she felt their sharp peaks jutting against her skin.

“Lean back,” he demanded. “Let me play with you.”

Meggie leaned back against his chest and he ran a hand up to cup her bare bottom in his palm. The sensations he aroused in her were so unbelievably exquisite that tears stung her eyes.

God, this felt so good. Magical.

While one hand kneaded her fanny, the other trailed to her bare breasts. He swept her nipples and pinched them lightly between his fingers, massaging them with the electricity of his masculine body heat. The sensation was at once delicious, sinful and sweetly familiar, like a favorite dessert eaten for the first time after a long hunger strike.

She’d missed his touch so very much. But how was that possible? She’d only been with him twice, and barely even knew him.

Meggie’s body grew heavier, more languorous, until it seemed to liquefy into his. He forsook her nipples and returned to making those idle circles around her breasts, until once more he was back, pulling and plucking the straining peaks.

She writhed against him.

He circled back around her breasts.

This time she moaned through clenched teeth when he reached her nipples at last and rolled them between his rough fingers.

Her breath came out in low episodic gasps and her entire body felt swollen and achy with intense arousal. Nibbling her ear, he lifted her higher up on his thighs, her back still pressed to his chest. She felt her moisture slicken his skin.

His lips tugged on her ear. She delighted in the sensation as he began to suck on her flesh and the opal stud nestled in her lobe. She shuddered at the wetness of his tongue, the heat of his mouth.

He spread his legs and, in the process, pried hers farther apart. One hand slid down her breast and across her inner thigh. His other hand continued to gently massage her butt.

At first, she didn’t realize what he was doing as he rotated both of them, spreading her thighs wider, moving closer to the mirror. And then she caught a glimpse of their reflection, the tantalizing picture of his naked flesh pressed against hers.

She gasped, scandalized, embarrassed and monumentally turned on.

She had never made love in front of a mirror. It seemed a wickedly sinful thing to do. She closed her eyes and turned her head.

His devilish laugh rang in her ears. “Look at yourself. Watch me make love to you.”

And, heaven help her, watch she did.

He bent her over the dresser and she clung to the furniture for dear life, her entire body trembling. He lightly smacked her bottom.

“What an ass.” He clutched her butt with both hands and sighed rhapsodically, as if having an oversize caboose was something to be proud of.

Their bodies shifted in the throes of pleasure. Sometimes she could see more of him, sometimes more of herself. The picture in the mirror was a hundred times more erotic than any dirty movie ever filmed. She lost all sense of herself, all sense of time and place.

The world tumbled, an easy glide into ecstasy. When she was quivering and oh so wet, he paused long enough to slip on a condom. He spent a few moments working her up again and then finally, finally, he slowly entered her from behind. She whimpered like a grateful puppy.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, and sweetly stroked her hair.

His gentle croon, his loving caress, fueled her fervor. She tried to move, to give as good as she was getting, but he wouldn’t allow it.

“No,” he whispered, and held her still by tugging lightly on her hair. “If you do that, I won’t last a moment.”

With much difficulty, she restrained herself. And each time she was about to shoot over the edge, he shifted his body just enough so it didn’t happen.

Frustration welled in her throat. “Please,” she begged. “Please.”

“What do you want?” he whispered roughly, pushing deeper into her. “Tell me. What do you need?”

“Please.” She choked on the word, barely able to speak at all.

“More? Do you want more?”

“Yes…oh yes.”

His tone was gruff and tender and thick with the same emotion that clogged her throat. “Not yet, sweetheart. Not yet.”

A long, fat sob spilled from her lips as he lifted her off him. She tried to turn, to take hold of him and force him to finish what he had started, but he had stepped back.

She could see him in the mirror; the light from the street glinting in through the blinds cast him in silhouette. She saw the hard, broad thrust of his erection. Blindly she reached for him.

He caught her wrist before she could make contact. “Wait. Please. Just a little bit longer. It will be worth it, I promise.”

Then he bent, scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He settled her on the covers and then stepped back. Meggie peered at him. She watched him illuminated in the light from the streetlamp outside the window, his face cloaked by the mask. If she reached out, she could easily flick that cover up and stare straight into his eyes.

“Take off my mask,” he demanded. “I want you to see my face.”

“No,” she whispered, her pulse suddenly pounding so much she feared she might have a heart attack on the spot.

“I am your master and you are my slave. You must obey me.”

“I won’t.”

“Then I must punish you.”

“Go ahead.”

Don Juan pinned her to the bed. “Take off my mask, slave.”

She was on the verge of hysteria. She could not, would not, remove his mask. Her mind balked at the very idea. She did not want to know who he was. It would ruin everything, and she feared he was leading up to more than an unmasking. She worried that he was falling in love with her. She simply could not have that happening.

Meggie realized then she needed the fantasy of the unobtainable male. His games had sustained her, bolstered her self-esteem and renewed her belief in her womanhood after her divorce.

But the last thing she needed in her life was another bad boy. She’d made that mistake once. She wasn’t about to do it again. Fireworks might be nice for a fantasy, but real life commitment required so much more than spice and flash. What she needed was an emotionally secure guy. A quiet, steady man. Like Caleb.

Except Caleb already had another woman.

“Take off my mask,” he repeated.

“No! Enough! I won’t.”

“Why not?” he growled.

“Because I don’t want to know who you are. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to see your face. I don’t want to fall in love with you. I need security. I need a man who can provide for me, not some gadabout pretty boy who likes to dress up and play sex games with strangers!”

MEGGIE’S WORDS SHATTERED Caleb’s world.

She wanted a man to provide for her. She didn’t care about love, but security. She was no different from those women who had shown up in Bear Creek seeking to marry him because he was a millionaire.

Disappointment and a great sadness washed over him, but those emotions were quickly replaced by anger.

“Then why are you here with me?”

Meggie blinked up at him, her face obscured by her own mask. “Why, for the sex games, of course.”