Bougainvillea (7 page)

* * *

When she came down in the morning, Jen was already there. She was enthusiastically talking to David about his home, his photography, and her own work. She greeted Kit with her back to David, brows arched with excited curiosity. Kit shook her head.

Later that day, at the convention center, Jen grilled her. “Nothing? You two did nothing?”

“We talked.”

Jen let out a disgusted sigh. “It's so obvious, the chemistry between you! It's just so right—I can tell.”

“Jen, would you sleep with a guy you'd only seen once before?”

“If it was right—you bet.”

“Well, he didn't make any moves.”

“
You
make a move!” Jen suggested.

“What, just say, ‘excuse me, we've got chemistry going here, let's sleep together'?”

“If all else fails,” Jen said seriously. “Are you supposed to fly out tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Get him tonight, then.”

“Jen, I don't want to ‘get' anyone.”

“Then you've been celibate far too long,” Jen said sagely. “What, are you going to turn your comic character into a nun? Get out there, live, give yourself something to work with!”

That night, David took her to dinner at a wonderful, intimate little restaurant in Little Italy. Every time his arm brushed hers, or his hand reached out as he escorted her in or out of the car, into her seat, into her jacket, she felt as if electric jolts ripped through her. The man was undeniably sexy, and sensual, with his dark eyes often seeming to hide a wry amusement with himself, with her, and with the world around them.

He told her more about his education, and how Seamus had insisted he not just slide into the business, but work hard in school and find a serious profession as well. He had liked practicing law, but discovered later that he was equally fond of business, and, when the demands of the company had begun to take more and more of his time,
he'd been ready to leave his practice behind, and take all that he learned with him into the family company.

Kit realized that as the meal progressed, they were leaning closer and closer to each other as they talked and laughed and shared the wine. She was aware that she was breathing in his delicious aftershave, a scent that was inextricably linked to him and extremely evocative.

Back at the hotel, they lingered for a few minutes in the parlor, sipping a last brandy. Their conversation turned again to Bougainvillea, and his life there.

Kit could admit to feeling a slight buzz from the wine, but she definitely had not overdone. Still, she found herself smiling ruefully and asking him, “I have to admit it—I don't quite get it.”

“What's that?”

“The fact that you're not married. I mean—you're not, right?”

He laughed. “No, not married.”

“Not even involved?”

“Certainly, I have been at times over the years. But not now. What about you?”

She grinned. “Well, there was Ray Leone in high school. We were the hot item for a while. At Northwestern, there was Mason Rigg. Law student. But very old-fashioned. I found that out when he became annoyed by the amount of women in his classes. The place for a woman, in his mind, is in the home. Supportive, you know. Taking the kids to school and doctor appointments and arranging business dinners. Not that I wouldn't want to take my kids to doctors' appointments and the like.” She fell silent, wondering why she was
explaining herself that way. “Sorry. Wow. How embarrassing. I didn't mean to give you a list.”

He was smiling, moving across the room to where she sat on the couch. The lights of Boston swept gently into the suite. Muted. He sat down beside her, took her glass, set it on the table, then held both her hands in his. “I like your list. It's wonderfully honest. Like you.” On the last, his voice was low, soft, husky. This close, the scent of his aftershave was pure intoxication. When his mouth touched hers, she was immediately aware of a melting sensation. She was equally aware that he was very experienced, a practiced lover, lips moving hers, fingers threading into her hair, tilting her head at a perfect angle for his tongue to do the most incredibly seductive things inside her mouth. Instinct, or maybe it was Jen's chemistry, reigned, and she moved against him, wishing nothing more, it seemed, than to sink right inside him, flesh, bone, heart and soul. Yet he drew back, not too far, dark eyes on hers. “I should slow down,” he said gently.

She searched out his eyes. “Why?”

His lips turned in that somewhat knowing grin that seemed to catapult her bloodstream all over again.

“Because I have a confession to make.”

“Oh?”

“I came here specifically to find you.”

“That's nice,” she said dreamily.

Then, he hesitated slightly.

“You see, Seamus wants you at Bougainvillea. I was sent to get you down there, whatever it took.”

She withdrew slightly, frowning as she looked into his eyes. “Why?”

He shrugged. “I don't know the details of exactly why. You'd have to ask Seamus. But I imagine I know what he's feeling. Your mother died, and your father left. The place was really as much your heritage as, say, mine, or the others. He's probably always harbored a certain amount of guilt as well that Marina died on the property. He was sorry when your father left—Seamus really liked and admired Mark. He understood, of course. But still…he was nuts about you when you were a little girl. You were Marina—except small, innocent, and completely loving and sincere. I'm not surprised that he wants to see you so badly. Make amends for all the bad things that happened—maybe atone for some of the recklessness and carelessness of his own youth.” He lifted his hands as if his explanation was insufficient. “Only Seamus knows what makes him really tick. But he's sincere in wanting to see you.”

“That's nice…I guess,” Kit murmured uncertainly.

“So…” he said slowly.

“So?” she echoed.

“So, where does that leave us?” he asked very softly.

She smiled. “I don't know.”

“I would have come after you myself, no matter what,” he insisted.

“Say it again.”

“I would have come after you myself, no matter what.”

“Why?”

“Because you're fascinating and beautiful.”

“Such a good reply,” she teased.

“I mean it. The confession is real, too, though. So tell me, where does that leave us?” he demanded insistently.

“On the sofa,” she returned, eyes carefully on his.

“When there are perfectly good bedrooms,” he mused.

“Perfectly good,” she agreed.

Kit wasn't quite sure that she believed her own actions, but she pressed him aside, rising.

“I'll be in one,” she told him.

She walked up the stairs thinking that Jen would be proud. Then she had a moment's panic as she thought she might be a fool. What a line.

And what if he didn't follow? She'd probably remain a burnt crimson called “mortification” for the rest of her life.

She stepped into the guest room, her heart thundering. She didn't turn on a light, but for a moment, simply stood against the wall, wondering if he would enter behind her.

He did.

She felt herself ever so gently pinned against the wall. And then his hands, on her face, and the huskiness of his whisper. “You're sure.”

And in that minute, she was.

Chemistry was just right…or it wasn't.

But it was. There was a second's awkwardness for her. She'd been out of touch with the real world, so it seemed, for a long time. Out of dating, speaking, laughing, even
trusting
another person. And yet…there it was, everything just right;
he
was not out of touch. Again, his touch, the feel of his fingers against her face, the warmth of his breath, the molding of his kiss. Everything that should have been awkward…

The pressure of his body dispelled all else. She felt that her body fit against his like a glove. They never left the wall, that first time. His shirt was shed, and she inhaled the richness of the scent of his flesh, felt the vibrant constriction of his muscles, and the warmth of
him that quickly seemed to enwrap her in an urgency that throbbed within her mind, her blood, her limbs. One touch of flesh and clothing seemed to melt away, easily, so easily. She felt no shyness, only that drumming need to crawl closer and closer into him, become a part of him. Standing, she felt the molten liquid of his kiss against her lips, her cheeks, her throat, down to her collarbone, between her breasts. His fingers moved with brushes of sensuality, teased and caressed. His touch was elusive and powerful. She hungered, wanted, burned. There was no past and no present, no memory of a different life, or even the current one. She was aware of the texture of his hair, and again of the heady scents, of musky cologne, of the man, skin and muscle beneath her touch, the texture of his face, and even in the dim shadows of moonlight, the dark fascination of his eyes. She stood, and for long moments was all but locked in place, simply feeling the brush of his fingers and the hot sweep of his tongue. Where he touched her she was a mass of pure heat, and when that touch left her, the air returned to caress and arouse anew. He moved against her body, lower, lower.

The tip of his tongue on her flesh.

The stroke of it…

The fullness…

The sensations were excruciating. Honeyed, hot. Abandoned, totally impassioned.

This was the kind of desire one could…

Die for.

Her fingers thread through his hair, kneaded his shoulders, stroked, and dug. No words left her lips, but soft sounds escaped her, ragged gasps. When the liquid
heat had all but caused her to melt away, he lifted her against the wall, her arms tight around his shoulders, her hips wedged hard, and he moved, fluid, powerful, until she felt that the world exploded in her, around her, and her head fell against his shoulder. At last, they left the wall, and she was barely aware that she came down gently on the comfort of a bed.

Moments later, even in shadow, she was aware of his eyes on hers, and she smiled. She was tempted to say thank you, just because it seemed that it had been so long since she had even contemplated such an evening, and he was simply so incredible.

“No regrets?” he murmured slightly.

She turned to him, eyes widening. “Should there be? Are you feeling any?”

“I couldn't regret tonight to save my life,” he told her.

She curled against him, feeling the dampness of his chest beneath her cheek, the strength of his legs, tangled with her own. Moments later, it was she who initiated intimacy, running her fingers down his rib cage, feeling the muscled ripple of his abdomen, and going lower, fingers brushing, then curling over the length of his sex. He turned to her quickly, hardening within her hold, and the melting began again. The urgency, the desire, the incredulous wonder, and the satiation were so sweet, she felt she soared in another world.

He rose later, as confident and imposing naked as he was in a designer suit, and brought champagne from the kitchen, crackers, bites of different cheeses. And they talked, comfortable in their state. It was the most wonderful night Kit had ever known.

But at last, when they slept, she dreamed. And it
wasn't of wonder, fulfillment, or laughter. She dreamed of Bougainvillea.

She walked in the sand. She felt the breeze, the cool dampness of the earth beneath her. There was a scent on the air of night-blooming jasmine. And there was a screeching sound that terrified her.

The parrots, just the parrots, Mary always told her.

But she could see her mother's face, almost hear her speak. She was in her bedroom in the main house, the Delaney house, so big and vast. There were windows that faced the lagoon, and they were open because the dead heat of summer was gone, and the slight, beautiful dip of temperature that heralded the coming of their oh so slight winter had come.

“Tomorrow, baby. Tomorrow. You, Daddy and I are going away. Poor, sweet thing! I promise you, I'll be with you then, I'll be with you, always.”

Kit awoke with a jerk; the dream had been so real.

At her side, David stirred, and sat up. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to wake you.”

“What was it?”

She forced an awkward laugh, not wanting to share the strange vision—or memory—that had come as she slept. “I don't know. Something just…woke me. Nightmare, I guess. But I woke you, too. I'm sorry.”

He pulled her close. “I'm not.”

They made love again. Intimately, as if they had been together forever. As if she had known him for years.

Technically, she supposed, she had.

But in reality, she realized, he was little more than a stranger.

“D
etails!” Jen exclaimed. “Details!”

Kit finished filling Whitney's bowl with cat food, cradling the phone between her head and shoulder.

“I am not giving you details,” Kit said firmly. “It was simply far too…well, I'm not talking about any of it.”

“Great,” Jen said. “I'm trying to live an exciting life through you, and I'm getting nowhere.”

Kit grinned and slid a hand down Whitney's black back as he happily scrambled for his bowl. “Your life is exciting enough. You do exactly what you want to do.”

“No, what I want to do is meet Mr. Perfect. He's going to have a job that he loves and gives him confidence, and he's going to be proud of me as a cartoonist. We're going to have one boy and one girl, and we're both going to be loving parents. Sometimes, I'll bring him breakfast in bed, and when I'm rushed, he's going to make coffee in the morning and make sure that the dinner we've ordered out has arrived.”

“He's out there somewhere.”

“Maybe. But in the meantime, I want my invitation to Bougainvillea. Okay, and this is why I'm so confused. Why aren't you there already?”