Banish Misfortune (11 page)

"God, Jessie, you make me so crazy," he muttered, sinking on one knee on the narrow bed beside her. His hands were shaking and not at all deft as he stripped the panty hose off her, and he almost strangled her with the slip as he pulled it over her head. And then she was lying there, naked, vulnerable, the soft cotton of the quilt under her back, looking up at him out of longing eyes.

There was nothing she could say, nothing she would do, to protect herself from his invasion of her mind and soul and body. And there was nothing she wanted to do. She had brought him back to her private room, and it was a secret measure of trust and faith that he would never even be aware of.

It only took Springer a moment to strip off his trousers, and for a moment Jessica looked at him, in all his uncompromisingly aroused glory. She hadn't really seen him the other night, had done her best to avoid looking directly at Philip Mercer on the few occasions they'd been to bed together. But tonight she wanted to look at Springer, wanted to see him. But she wanted to feel him even more.

She held up her arms to him, beseechingly. And with a groan he covered her, spread her, filled her with that strong, masculine beauty of his. Her body arched beneath his on the quilt, drawing him in even deeper as her legs wrapped around his narrow hips, and the arms clinging to his broad back were desperate.
Don't leave me,
her mind cried, as shadows and sensations beat like the wings of a thousand birds against her consciousness. And then, unexpectedly, before he had more than set up the age-old rhythm that had once disgusted her, the familiar-unfamiliar tightening gripped her, arching her up against him, as wave after wave swept over her. It was mysterious, overwhelming, indefinable, and she wept against him, her tears hot on their damp skin.

He cradled her against him until the last spasm passed, and in sudden shyness she tried to pull away. "Not so fast," he whispered in her ear, his teeth capturing her sensitive lobe and nipping lightly. Another ripple of pleasure shook her body, and he laughed breathlessly. "Do that again," he murmured, biting her again. Her body trembled once more, and he pushed against her. "I'm afraid I'm not quite finished," he added politely, his tongue lightly tracing her tremulous lips. "And I don't think you are, either."

She opened her mouth, to question, to protest, when he deepened the kiss, his tongue a warm, wet, powerful intruder, reminding her of his other intrusion. Slowly he rocked against her, drawing her with him, his hands firm and strong on her hips, holding her tightly. For a moment she wanted to pull away, to protest, her body weary and reluctant. And then the trembling began again, deep inside, with an even greater force. It was happening again, she thought with amazement, her fingers digging into the warm, muscled shoulders above her. It couldn't be, but it was. He couldn't... she couldn't...

It hit her with the shock of a tidal wave, drowning her. She could feel him against her, within her, rigid with the suddenness of his release, could hear his voice, the rasping breath against her shoulder, the barely discernible words, love words, sex words, praise and pleasure tumbling from him. It took far longer to die away this time, and she smiled in exhaustion against his chest, holding him close against her. She didn't want him to leave her, ever; she wanted to stay beneath the warmth and strength of his body. She could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing slow, and she kept very still, willing him to fall asleep.

How many times had she dreaded the thought of being trapped under Peter's body while he slept, blissfully sated? What had happened to her in the past two weeks, that she would want to lie here, crushed by a much larger body? She didn't want to examine her motives, didn't want to think about it. She recognized when his breathing slowed into the steady sound of sleep. Moving with infinite care, she arranged herself more comfortably beneath him. And placing an odd, irrational kiss against his shoulder, she closed her eyes and prepared to join him in sleep.

Chapter Eleven

She knew he was watching her. Sometime during the night they must have shifted around. Right now she was lying curled up against him, the old quilt wrapped around their naked bodies, and her eyes were still closed. Through her eyelids she could sense the slow breaking of dawn over the gray city, through her skin she could sense the curiosity of the man beside her. And for the first time in her life she wanted to snuggle closer, not pull away. For now, maybe she could fake it. How was he to know whether she slept or not? Maybe she really was sleeping. Otherwise, why would she want to move closer to the alien body in her bed? With a muffled sigh she stretched out her long legs, rubbing them against the even longer legs behind her, and wished she never had to wake up.

Springer wasn't fooled. He'd slept with too many women, too many times, not to know when someone was pretending to be asleep. He knew when a woman was faking, before, during or after making love. And what still astonished him was her response. A response that seemed to surprise her even more than it surprised him. Someone must have handled her very, very badly when she was younger, that she'd come to expect so little out of making love. Not that he didn't do his damnedest to make it pleasurable for her, but he was, even with his experience, not as miraculous as she appeared to think he was. And her response still embarrassed her. He could see the faint flush stain her high, Nordic cheekbones, the cheekbones with not enough flesh on them, and a slow smile lit his face.

Springer could very easily get used to the idea of showing her just how pleasurable it could be. Each time they made love she loosened up a little more, opened up to him. And for some reason that mattered to him, even knowing she was someone else's fiancee, heading to be someone else's mistress. A cold, ambitious lady, lying in his arms, pretending to be asleep, all the while her trim bottom was pressed up against him enticingly. He must be going through a midlife crisis at thirty-five.

He slid an arm around her, drawing her closer against him, smiling as she nestled closer, still feigning sleep. This room didn't look at all like her. The rest of the apartment was all pure white walls with a splash or two of color from carefully selected, exquisitely tasteful modern paintings. Everything had seemed ruthlessly up-to-date, though he had to admit his attention wasn't on her interior decor last night.

But this room was lined with bookshelves, filled with books. Old leather-bound sets, sleazy paperbacks and everything in between jostled for room on the overflowing shelves. The quilt spread over them was old and beautiful, the one painting was a Watteau. Romantic, innocent, very unlike the lady lying in his arms. Or was it?

One hand reached up to cup her small breast, and he noticed with approval its immediate response. Damn, he wanted her again, wanted her more than he had wanted anyone for a long time. He couldn't seem to get enough of that too-skinny body, that nasty tongue of hers, that lost, hungry look in her ice-blue eyes when he filled her. He could feel himself hardening against her at the thought, and he wondered if she'd ignore it, still pretending to be asleep. How far would she let him go, her eyes tightly shut, her muscles not quite relaxed enough for it to be believable. He had just begun to turn her over in the narrow confines of the single bed when the phone rang.

Jessica's eyes flew open, wide with shock and dismay. There was no room for pretending any longer, but he tried to put off the inevitable. "Don't answer," he whispered, kissing her lightly on her soft, parted lips.

He would have given anything for her to respond, and for a moment it seemed as if she might, her lips clinging, her tongue reaching out to lightly, shyly skirt his lower lip. And then her eyes darkened, and she pulled away, out of his arms, out of the bed, stumbling away from him.

Springer watched her as she tried vainly to pull her skimpy little slip on. Reaching down he plucked his shirt from the floor and tossed it to her. It reached halfway down to her knees, and her mumbled thanks were interrupted by the regular shrilling of the phone above their heads.

She dived for it at the same time he was reaching out. Of course he was the victor, pulling her back down on the bed at the same moment he uncradled the phone. She opened her mouth to yell at him, but he only smiled silently and handed her the phone, his other hand holding her down beside him on the bed.

She had no choice but to answer. "Hello?" Her voice was strained, slightly hoarse. "Yes, Peter, it's me." She glared at Springer, willing him to go away, struggling against his inexorable hold. He merely smiled, trapping her legs with his. "No, Peter, that's quite all right. I usually get up around six anyway. No, I don't think so. No, I can't. Peter..."

Springer could hear the rumble of Peter Kinsey's voice on the other end of the line, could see the frustration in Jessica's pale face as she struggled vainly against his light but implacable hold. Finally she lay back in his arms, panting slightly. "No, I'm all right, Peter," she said breathlessly. "I was just trying to get dressed while you called."

Springer put his head down beside hers, hoping to decipher Peter's agitated rumble, but she jerked away from him, frowning fiercely. "What was that, Peter? I didn't quite hear you."

Suddenly her body went very still, and a fleeting, stricken look danced across her face. Springer could feel her withdrawal, feel her moving away from him, and he knew that no matter how hard he held on, she was gone.

He dropped his arms, and slowly, like a sleepwalker, she rose from the bed. "Yes, Peter," she said dully, that stricken look gone now, replaced with an unreadable expression. "Certainly, I can manage that. If you think it necessary." She moved back across the room, the telephone in her hand, her mind elsewhere. "I don't know if my passport's up to date. I probably need some shots. Maybe you could do something about that.... All right. Yes, later." Slowly she replaced the phone on the cradle, leaning over Springer's watchful figure to do it.

"What's up?" he said softly, not wanting to startle her.

She roused herself from her abstraction. "What? Oh, I gather I'm going to the Mediterranean in a few weeks." Without another glance in his direction she headed for the door.

"Part of your honeymoon?" he inquired coolly, unable to help himself.

She paused by the door, bestowing a singularly sweet smile on him. "No, Springer. Part of my business deal. I'll be going with Lincoln." And she closed the door silently behind her.

Her hands were shaking by the time she made it to her bathroom, and the tears pouring down her face mingled with the hot water of the shower. Peter and Lincoln had made the arrangements—a month-long cruise of the Mediterranean, to help them wind down from the intensive negotiations of the past few months. The joining of two massive corporations like Kinsey Enterprises and Lincoln Incorporated had to be handled like the mating of porcupines—very carefully. Any wrong move could result in disaster, and they had all been very circumspect. Peter would accompany them, as would Jasper and whoever was enjoying his attentions at the moment. But they would go back after the first week. Only Jessica was deemed worn down enough to merit the entire month-long cruise. With only her host to keep her company.

She could still hear the barely controlled panic in Peter's voice over the telephone. Things must be desperate indeed for him to have to come so close to asking her to whore for him. She had said all the right things; as far as Peter was concerned the merger and the vacation were assured.

And what was Springer thinking right now? What had gotten into her last night, to have gone to bed with him like that? And why was she standing in her shower, crying, and wishing she were still back there with him, weeping against his broad shoulder and having him tell her everything would be all right?

Because everything wouldn't be all right, she told herself feverishly. Not unless she made it so. And she still wasn't quite sure how she could manage it. But relying on a man like Springer MacDowell would only get her deeper into trouble.

The slam of the front door echoed through the apartment reverberating through her body, and she flinched beneath the hot, steady stream of the shower. Well, at least there wouldn't be the need for stilted morning-after conversation. And she leaned her forehead against the marble tile and wept some more.

Springer used to love
the empty early-morning streets of Manhattan and the Upper East Side. But not this morning. His impossibly long legs ate up the distance between Jessica's austere apartment at Park and Seventy-second and Hamilton's town house in the sixties, all the time his brain was in ferment.

Damn her, damn her, damn her, he cursed. And damn him. What the hell was he doing, being jealous of a woman he scarcely knew? He hadn't even been jealous of his wife during the short miserable time they'd been married. Why should he suddenly discover that unpleasant emotion for a woman he had no right to feel jealous over, no reason to even like?

But there was no denying it, he thought ruefully, ducking into a small hole-in-the-wall cafe for a cup of wretched coffee. He was overwhelmingly, insanely jealous, and there was nothing he wanted to do more than hit something or someone. Preferably X. Rickford Lincoln.

Hamilton's house was dark and silent when Springer let himself in just after seven. Tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair, he lowered himself onto the rough cotton sofa with a weary sigh. He was too tired to do anything, too wired to go back to sleep. Stretching his long legs out in front of him, he leaned back, wishing he had another cup of coffee to nurse, while he figured out what he was going to do about Jessica Hansen.

In the end that decision was taken from him. He heard the phone ring, once, twice, and had every intention of ignoring it. He knew Hamilton turned off the phone in his bedroom until eleven, and whoever it was could damn well wait. He had already had his day spoiled by one damned phone call.

But the ringing was insistent, nerve-racking, and suddenly ominous. And Elyssa's panic-blurred voice on the other end was even more frightening.

"Thank God I've found you, Springer. I've been calling everywhere—I even tried Jessica a few minutes ago, but there was no answer. Where have you been?"

Springer was immediately, completely alert. "It doesn't matter-I'm here now. What is it, Mother?"

Elyssa took a deep, shuddering breath. "It's {Catherine."

Chapter Twelve

The Slaughterer, vol. 54: Decker
's
Drop

Matt Decker surveyed the carnage around him. Things were too quiet, he didn't trust it when things were so quiet. The calm before the storm, and only the Slaughterer knew how bad the storm could be. A hail of bullets, a wind of firepower and devastation would rain on this little side street in the Himalayas.

Decker shoved the gun in the ankle pocket of his combat jump suit before heading out into the snow. Ilse would like it here, he thought suddenly. Maybe he'd find her holed up somewhere. Maybe finally they'd have their showdown.

In the meantime, he couldn't let himself be distracted. Terrorists had been masquerading as abominable snowmen, and he had to melt their cover with a blaze of bullets.
A
lean, determined smile cracked his face as he moved out. The calm before the storm never lasted long.

Things were going very well indeed
. If she had any sense at all, Jessica could lean back and view her life with a justifiable amount of satisfaction. But then, when had she ever had enough sense, she wondered.

Count your blessings,
she instructed herself, leaning back in the cushioned desk chair and staring blankly out at the heat-hazed Manhattan skyline. First, she seemed to be regaining her health. During the past two weeks she'd not only been able to keep food down but had actually developed an appetite. If she kept eating the way she had been, it wouldn't be too long before she had to go on a diet. Her hollow cheeks had begun to fill, her stomach was no longer concave, and that concentration-camp look was fading rapidly. It wouldn't be long before her semi-irregular periods would become regular again, and the peaceful lethargy would soon translate itself into her usual high energy.

Then there was the problem of Peter. He, thank God, had kept his distance, accurately gauging her reluctance with no more than a questioning look. Despite the fact that she was unofficially engaged to Peter, she had no intention of sleeping with him until things became a little clearer in her own mind. He was probably too caught up in the intricacies of the merger and Rickford Lincoln's polite blackmail to worry about his fiancee's sexual skittishness. She doubted that he was highly sexually motivated in the first place. If he was, he would hardly have been satisfied with her manufactured, tepid responses, and she would have been unable to hold him off for so long.

Lincoln, secure in the belief that she was going to be his property for fun and games on board the yacht, had also backed off, contenting himself with a pinch here and there, a fumbled grope when he thought no one was looking.

And best of all, Springer was gone.

Two weeks ago, immediately after the night he'd spent in her apartment, he'd taken off, without a word. Not that she deserved a word, she realized fairly. And she couldn't bring herself to question Elyssa. Too often she saw the curiosity in her friend's liquid dark eyes that were too much like her son's, but Elyssa didn't bring up the subject, and Jessica refused to. No, she was grateful, immeasurably so, that Springer had disappeared. He was simply one more complication in an already convoluted life, a complication she could gladly do without.

Especially when things were coming down to the wire. Jasper had phoned her a few moments ago—the papers had been drawn up, the time of signing arranged with all the flourish the Kinseys relished. They would meet tomorrow afternoon to sign the agreements, continue on to the Tavern on the Green to seal the bargain with a proper celebration, and then depart on Friday for the Mediterranean. It was unfortunate that something had come up, and neither Jasper nor Peter could accompany them for that first week, but then, that was business. And Jessica wasn't to even consider not going herself—she had earned her vacation, and Lincoln's yacht, away from everything, would be just the place.

A cynical smile twisted Jessica's pale mouth. Part of the agreement would be a very fat bonus for her efforts on the Kinseys' behalf. More than enough to get her far away, if that's what she chose to do. As the time was getting closer, she was still undecided, and this time she couldn't even turn to Elyssa and Hamilton for help and advice. Not with the memory of Springer hovering in the background. No, it was more than time for her to make up her own mind.