Forbidden Fire (12 page)

“Have I?”

“About your newlywed friends.”

She shrugged. “I don't—”

“You lied to me about them.”

“It seemed easier to introduce them as man and wife. I knew they were marrying the next day. Why on earth are you so angry about them?” she demanded, determined not to show her fear.

“Oh, I'm not angry about them at all,” he said softly.

“Then?” she murmured.

He moved into the room at last. He was stalking her, she thought. She moved back. A quivering seized her. She was angry; she was uncertain.

And she knew that he was going to touch her, corner her and touch her and hold her to his whim. It was in his stride, in his eyes. And she shivered because she did not know if she despised the idea …

Or anticipated it.

“Then …?” she repeated on a note of desperation.

“Then …”

She was backed against the wall. He laid a hand flat on either side of her head, imprisoning her without touching her, except with that blue fire in his eyes.

“What I want to know, my dear Marissa, is just what else you've lied about to me.”

“Really, there's nothing—”

“I will have the truth, Marissa. And I will have it tonight.”

Chapter Six

“I
haven't lied to you about anything else!” Marissa protested. She slipped away quickly, moving around the room to keep a distance between them. Coming to the little silver tray with the decanters of brandy and sherry and whiskey, she paused, pouring out a snifter of brandy. She needed to be very calm. “Would you like something?” she asked him politely.

“Yes, I'd like the truth.”

She sipped the brandy, studying him over the rim of the glass. “Your Yankee manners are atrocious, Mr. Tremayne.”

He moved toward her. She swallowed the contents of the brandy glass, and it was suddenly plucked out of her hands. “Have I married a little drunkard as well as a cunning little liar?”

“A drunkard!”

“Lady, you've had enough champagne today to sink a ship.”

“How dare you! You Yankee—”

“Yeah, yeah, us Yanks. It's been like this ever since we finally won that war in 1812.”

She tried to move away, but he caught her arm. His touch was forceful, but not painful. She could feel his determination. She wasn't going to escape him again.

“Let's talk,” he said flatly.

She didn't have much of an opportunity to resist; she found herself sitting on the settee with him beside her. Close beside her. His eyes blazed into hers.

“Let's have it, Marissa.”

She raised her eyes to his. He was so damned determined! She suddenly wanted to spit out the truth and beg for mercy.

No. She wouldn't let him intimidate her. The truth could do nothing for any of them now.

Jimmy and Mary were legally wed.

And she was wed to this man.

She shook her head, allowing her lashes to fall over her eyes. Dear God, she should have left the brandy alone. The champagne had been bad enough. And she needed so desperately to be in control.

Especially tonight. Some fierce fever burned in Ian Tremayne tonight. His eyes seemed ringed with it, both fire and ice, burning hot one minute and cold the next. She'd seen him gentle, tender, amused and angry, but never so tense as this.

All because she had lied to him.

But the life she was living was a lie, and there was no way out of it, no way to tell him the truth. There was nothing to do but play her part, that of the spoiled and willful child of a very rich man.

She stared at him, chin high, eyes level. “I'm sorry that you are so affronted over such a very minor thing as the precise hour and date of a marriage.”

“A lie is never a minor thing, Marissa.”

“This one was,” she insisted. “I knew that Jimmy and Mary would be married, and I wanted you—to accept them as man and wife. I couldn't have left here without them, you see.”

“Your lives are so entwined, then? I'm curious. How?”

His eyes were maddening. So dark, so blue, so demanding. She felt pinned to the settee. Desperate. She didn't like the feeling. The warmth emanating from his body encompassed her. The clean scent of his soap hinted warmly of the man's masculinity, and the soft feathering of his breath when he spoke touched upon her face. The sensations were pleasant. She suddenly wanted to laugh and touch his face, no matter how hard and forbidding that face.

It was the champagne, she thought. Do not touch, for he bites!

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the settee.

“Tell me about these very good friends of yours, Marissa.”

“I can't. I'm quite exhausted. I need you to leave. I shall explain everything that you desire at some later time.”

“Will you?”

“Indeed.”

“I think not.”

He caught her hands and pulled her up. Her eyes flew open, blazing with fury. “If you were any kind of British gentleman—”

“Well, I'm not. I'm not British at all. What I am is a Yank, remember, and therefore, according to you, my manners are by nature atrocious.”

“All right, all right!” She snatched her hands free from his and leaped to her feet. There was a sudden blackness before her and she wavered. She caught hold of an oak table to remain standing. “Her father, Mary's father, was the vicar of our parish. As children, we were very good friends. And not long after her father died, she came to live with us. It's very simple, sir!” she announced scornfully.

“And Jimmy?”

“And Jimmy?” Marissa found that she was smiling slowly. “Why, she met him, and she fell in love with him. There's no mystery there, Mr. Tremayne.”

“Ah, but your life seems to be shrouded in mystery, Mrs. Tremayne,” he taunted softly.

“It's quite amazing that you should feel so, sir,” she said sweetly.

“I want to know what else you've lied about,” he returned.

“I've told you—”

“And I've warned you,” he snapped.

She meant to walk by him very smoothly. Chin high, shoulders square—with a firm upper lip. But she had barely moved from the table when the swamping dizziness came over her again. She tripped—she was rather certain that she tripped right over his foot. The next thing she knew she was falling and, reaching out, she came in hard contact with his chest.

He half rose to catch her, then her impetus threw them onto the settee, her fingers curled into his starched white shirt, her body draped across his lap. His arms had wrapped instinctively around her to break the fall. Startled, she gazed into the blue depths of his eyes. She meant to jump quickly away, but she could not. She suddenly seemed to be enveloped in the strength and scent of the man, and in the power of his eyes. She did not move at all, but met his gaze. Heat seared through her. A sweet trembling began in her stomach and traveled like wildfire to her limbs. Delicately she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, seeking to speak, to break the curious hold.

And she was suddenly certain that he meant to speak, too. But he did not. Not really. Instead an oath shattered the air, and he bent down to her. He was going to kiss her again, she thought. She should rise, protest.

Instead she awaited the touch of his mouth. The sensations were again spiraling wildly through her. Something molten, something delicious, churned deeply within her. She had felt his kiss before. And she anticipated it now.

It was the champagne. Or the brandy. She could not think.

Or perhaps …

It was just the man.

And then his lips touched hers, forming over them with a practiced and fierce demand. Hot and moist and so very sure, they drank in the fullness of her mouth, touching, invading, exploring, eliciting more fervent sensations to swirl and play wickedly within her blood. She felt again the urge to touch him, and this time she did, her fingers uncurling from his shirt front to touch his cheek and feel the texture of his bronzed flesh. She pressed closer against him, instinctively responding to the overwhelming sensuality of the man. Some small voice warned her that she was catapulting into danger with a stranger, with the enemy. But intelligent thought had long since eluded her. She felt only the sweep of his tongue, the molding of his lips, the pressure of his hands, holding her leisurely to his will.

His lips parted from hers.

“Indeed, madam, what other lies have you spoken?”

She fought his grip suddenly, furious, her head reeling.

“None!”

She struggled to rise, slamming her fist against his chest. “None! I am weary, I am exhausted, and you plague me endlessly while you pretend that we can live amicably in the same house. Please! I am too tired—”

“You are too drunk,” he said dryly.

“Oh! And you didn't drink champagne as if it were water yourself!”

“I did not drink champagne out of fear.”

“I am not afraid of you.”

“You are afraid of some truth, and yes, Marissa, therefore you are afraid of me. Very much afraid of me.”

“Oh!”

He released her and she leaped to her feet, pointing dramatically at the door. “Tremayne, we shall speak of this some other time, I tell you!”

She started for the door, but he stood and caught her arm. “We'll speak of it now! And take care, madam, that you never again show me a door before we are finished.”

She heard his words, but she was suddenly too weary to fight him. She fell into his arms. Her eyes closed and she clung to his shoulders. She groaned softly. “Please, I cannot stand.”

“You will stand. It's all a trick with you!”

“No!” she whispered. “No. This is no trick.”

He carried her to the settee and set her down on it. He leaned over her, and though she had allowed her eyelashes to drift softly closed over her eyes, she was suddenly aware that he was concerned. She had told him the truth, her knees had buckled, and she had been able to stand no longer. But now she realized that perhaps this was the best game to play with him.

Her lashes fluttered open and she discovered that he was studying her intensely. She found herself returning his gaze, unable to look away. His left hand lay upon her hip while his right hand sat upon her shoulder and his face was close, bronzed, tense, close. She inhaled the clean scent of the man and felt the sudden rush of his breath against her cheek. She wanted to look away; she could not. A sweet cascade of sensation suddenly ran throughout her limbs, hot where he touched her and hot where his eyes seared into hers. It swept her breath away, and caused her heart to quicken its pace until she could feel the maddening pulse within her mind.

“Leave me—” she started to murmur, but her voice broke off for she realized that he was going nowhere.

His mouth was slowly descending upon hers.

His kiss was not gentle. No, not gentle at all.

His lips seared hers with a simmering anger just barely held in check. He did not hurt her, nor did he allow her any room for escape. There was force behind his touch, and still …

And still, somewhere within it, was the sweetness of seduction, of coercion. His left hand lay upon her hip while his right one caught her cheek, his thumb stroking her flesh while his kiss found its own haunting leisure. Her heart began to pound more fiercely. She didn't know if it was the sweet fire of the champagne or of the man entering into her blood, warming her, filling her with the same anger.

And the same passion.

She meant to protest. But instead her lips parted to his fierce demand, and she felt the intimate foray of his tongue, tasting her lips, delving into the dark and secret crevices of her mouth and seeming to enter into her soul. She felt the fascinating sweep of his tongue with her own. Her heart pounded. Darkness seemed to descend. The clean male scent that swept evocatively around him touched and stirred new sensations within her.

Her hands lay against his chest. She needed to push him away. She did not. She let her fingers roam over the fabric of his vest and felt as if she held tight while some whirlwind caught her. Then his lips raised from hers at last, and his eyes were upon hers again, sizzling with anger and fire, and she realized that no tenderness or pity had stirred his actions. Furiously, she shoved with all her strength against him and got to her feet.

“It's time for you to leave, Mr. Tremayne!” she gasped, shaking, wiping his kiss from her lips with the back of her hand as if she could erase the passion between them.

He didn't move. “I still haven't gotten an answer,” he told her. “Or perhaps I have.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Now get up and get out.”

“You are a rotten little liar,” he told her softly.

“Meaning?”

“That was no innocent kiss.”

“I did not kiss you.”

“Ah, but you see, you returned the touch.”

“I was trying to be polite.”

“Polite!” he exclaimed, then he burst out laughing. “Dear Lord, how often are you polite? And with just how many men?”

“Oh, you are horrid!”

“Merely American.”

“Is it one and the same?”

“I'm wounded, deeply.”

“No, dear sir, you wound others deeply.”

His voice remained light, but there was underlying danger in his tone. “I'm seeking the truth, my love.”

Desperate, she cried out to him. “I haven't lied to you! Oh, dear Lord, help me! I'm trying to tell you—”

She broke off. He was on his feet at last, and heading toward her. Then she realized that he only meant to sweep past her on his way to the door. She inhaled quickly with relief, and he turned.

“I—I haven't lied to you!” she cried, but she faltered. And then she suddenly panicked as his hands came to rest upon her shoulders. She slammed her fists against his chest. “Damn you! Can't you just leave it be! You want your life; I want my privacy!”