Jo Goodman (27 page)

"Did I faint?" Berkeley asked.

"Not quite that. Until you went to sleep you never lost consciousness."

"You undressed me?"

"Yes."

Berkeley pressed her forehead against her knees. "I don't suppose you considered asking for Annie's help?"

"Considered and dismissed," he said. "It seemed getting you out of that dress was the most important thing."

"Yes," she said quietly, lifting her head and looking at him. "Yes, it was. Thank you."

"Is it true what you told me about Ivory?"

Berkeley nodded.

"I know you believe it's true," he said. "But do you
know
it?"

"Have I heard it from Ivory, you mean?" she asked. "No. How could I? I've never met her. Hank Brock certainly didn't tell me. I
know
it because I felt it. All evening. From the moment I put that gown on I knew something horrible had happened in it. When I was on the gaming floor... with the men... sometimes it was as if..." But she didn't go on. What she had felt wearing that gown, the things she'd said, the way she'd said them, it was not like her. It was not
her.
Not entirely. Berkeley moved to the edge of the bed and slid her legs over the side. "What have you done with it?"

"It's safe."

"I don't want it to be safe. I want it burned." She started to get out of bed, but Grey got to his feet first. He crossed to where she sat in three easy, nearly soundless strides. Berkeley looked up at him. "Do you intend to keep me here?" she asked.

Grey's fingers raked his dark hair. When his hand reached the back of his neck it stayed there, massaging away kinks and tension. "Don't make it sound as though it's against your will," he said wearily. He pointed to the window. "It's not even light yet. Go back to sleep."

She was struck by how tired he looked. There were tiny lines at the corners of his mouth; the usually intense eyes were dull. His skin was stretched tautly over the bones of his face. Quite unexpectedly Berkeley reached up and touched his gaunt cheek with her fingertips. "What about you? Have you slept?"

He didn't answer her question. He captured her hand instead. "Why did you do that?"

Her eyes were large, luminous. "I... I don't know." It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to touch him in just such a manner. "Was it wrong?"

"Wrong?" he asked softly. "No, it wasn't wrong."

Berkeley felt his hold on her hand relax. She twisted her wrist, not to release herself, but so that she was the one holding him. She tugged once, just enough to encourage him. He lowered himself to the bed beside her slowly, as if he was still unsure it was what she wanted. Berkeley laced her fingers between his and drew his hand onto her lap. She stared at the contrasts in the clasp. The inherent strength in his long, lean fingers made her hand seem more delicate than it actually was. His rough fingertips were a counterpoint to her soft ones, and her skin looked as smooth and white as polished ivory next to his darker complexion.

Berkeley spared him a glance before her eyes returned to the safety of her lap. "I wanted to say I'm grateful," she said. She hooked her heels on the bed frame. "For noticing I was missing from the crowd. For taking the time to look for me. I know what you thought I was doing, but you were mistaken. I didn't encourage him, or at least I didn't mean to." She took a short breath. "I wish—"

"Berkeley," Grey said quietly. "There's no need to—"

"You shouldn't be afraid to hear me out." She realized suddenly that she was squeezing his hand harder than was ever her intention. She relaxed her grip. Her brief sidelong glance caught Grey's brief smile.

"Go on," he said. "You were wishing..."

She nodded slowly. "I was wishing I had given you some reason to think better of me. I've allowed you to set me up in my own rooms and purchase clothes for me and make certain I have enough to eat. That I came to the Phoenix at all doesn't speak well of me. Then I disobeyed one of the few demands you made by going to Sydney Town. I disobeyed you again by following you back when you went to get Mike. It seems when I try to be independent I only make myself foolish."

The corners of Berkeley's mouth turned in a self-deprecating smile. "In any event it's clear you do not regard me in a favorable light. I only mention this because it makes it all the more astonishing that you would put yourself out this evening on my account. I realize that in part your were acting to protect your investment—"

"Investment? You, you mean?"

"Yes, of course. In coming to find me, Hank Brock might very well have hurt you." Having said her piece, Berkeley slipped her fingers from in between Grey's. She wondered if it had been clear that she was thanking him.

Grey let the silence that followed stretch. He withdrew his hand from her lap. "Are you quite finished?" he said at last.

Berkeley nodded once.

"Will you look at me, Miss Shaw?" His fingertips touched her chin. With no real urging on his part, she turned to face him.

"You may call me Berkeley," she said, raising her eyes to his. "I don't mind."

"I thought some formality was in order now. I'm trying very hard not to take advantage of you."

"I don't mind."

Grey blinked, not certain he'd heard her correctly. "Perhaps you don't know what I mean when I say 'take advantage of.' "

"I think I do," she said.

He merely stared at her, and this time she did not look away. "Yes," she whispered, as his head lowered toward her. "Yes."

Grey's mouth came down on hers. Her lips were soft, pliant. They moved under his tentatively at first, then more eagerly. Her hands lay flat on his chest. Her fingers slowly curved in the fabric of his shirt, and she raised herself up a little, pulling herself closer to him. Their mouths parted briefly, and it was Berkeley who strained forward to press her lips to his. They shared a single breath as her spontaneous sigh of satisfaction was swallowed by him.

Grey's hands slid around her waist. He held her against him, his fingers threaded at the small of her back. Their slow descent to the bed started with an almost infinitesimal shift in weight and balance. Berkeley's fingers eased around Grey's shoulders as she was lowered under him. The delicious pressure of his chest on her breasts made her breath catch. Her lips parted.

It was the opening Grey had been waiting for. He learned the shape of her mouth with his tongue. He teased the soft and sensitive line of her upper lip and nibbled gently on her generous lower one. The damp edge of his tongue pressed for entry and found it. The kiss deepened. Grey swept her mouth, teasing again, tasting. Her response was no mere imitation of what was done to her, but somehow richer. She seduced where he teased, savored where he tasted. She drew him in more deeply and made what was an entirely new experience for her exactly the same for him.

Berkeley Shaw was outside all that was familiar to Grey Janeway.

He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. He cupped her face and searched her features. Light from the room's single lamp flickered across her skin as he raised himself higher. Her eyes were wide, her lips faintly braised and damp. "You
know
where this is going, don't you?"

Berkeley was held too tightly simply to nod her answer. She had to say it aloud. "Yes," she whispered. "I know."
I've always known.

Grey did nothing for a moment, merely continued to watch her, then he felt her body lift under him, arching delicately in a movement she couldn't quite contain, pressing her breasts against his chest, her thighs against his hip, and he knew he needed to believe her. His groan was as involuntary as the sweet, helpless curve of her body rising to meet his.

"Berkeley." Then his mouth covered hers again.

She closed her eyes. It was a surrender of sorts, this loss of one of her senses, but every other sense was enriched by it. Berkeley heard the sounds made by the damp heat of their mouths joining and parting, slanting first one way, then another. There was rustling of the sheets and straining in the bed supports as they shifted positions. The fabric of her lawn nightshift sliding over her shoulder was like a whisper.

His kisses tasted faintly of bourbon, and Berkeley knew that if given a choice she would always drink from his mouth. At the curve of his neck and the underside of his jaw, she had no comparison for the salty-sweet taste of him or the musky fragrance that she breathed in deeply. Grey himself became the point of reference.

Berkeley's hands slid under his shirt, and she felt the bunched muscles of his back and shoulders. Her fingertips glided across his chest and dipped just inside his trousers. His skin retracted under her touch. The sound he made was born of both pleasure and pain.

She couldn't help her small, satisfied smile.

Grey's teeth caught her ear and tugged gently. "You like that, don't you?"

Did he mean what she had done to him or what he was doing to her? She supposed it didn't matter. She liked both. Berkeley twisted her head. "Yes," she whispered against his cheek. "I like all of it."

Grey managed to trap laughter at the back of his throat. "You haven't experienced half of it."

Berkeley knew that far better than he did.

Grey rolled away and sat up. He removed his shirt and tossed it toward the foot of the bed. He intercepted her startled glance. "Would you like me to turn back the lamp?"

She shook her head slowly. "No, I like looking at you," she said, surprising them both with her frankness. She cleared her throat and tried to explain. "It's just that you're rather more than I thought you would be." Berkeley pushed herself up. One strap of her filmy shift fell farther down her arm. She didn't notice at all. Grey was kneeling beside her, his fingers on the front fly of his trousers. His erection was clearly outlined. Her mouth went dry. Indeed, rather more summed it up nicely.

Berkeley cleared her throat. "Perhaps the lamp..." She cast suddenly nervous eyes in the direction of the table.

Grey's fingers stilled. His mouth tightened marginally, not with displeasure, but with the demand this change in plans placed on him. "Very well." He gracefully vaulted over Berkeley and landed lightly on his feet. The lamp was extinguished quickly, and he returned to the bedside. He saw the worry still etched in her features and went immediately to close the drapes. He approached the bed again, this time more slowly while his eyes accustomed themselves to the dark, wondering all the while if Berkeley had changed her mind.

Something sailed past his face in the dark. Something almost insubstantial, like the brush of a butterfly's wing. It took him a moment to recognize it for what it was: the fine sheer linen of Berkeley's nightgown.

Grey Janeway's rare smile was shuttered by darkness.

Chapter 8

Berkeley moved to one side to make room for him. Her hand brushed his naked hip. She retracted it quickly. She hadn't heard him remove his trousers or drawers.

Grey found her hand with unerring ease. He drew her back to his hip first, then to his heavy, hard erection. The muscles across his back tightened as her fingers curled around it. He showed her how to move her hand along the length of him and when her nails lightly scored the underside he hauled her up hard against him and buried his mouth in her hair.

They fell on their sides on the bed. Berkeley found herself almost immediately under him. Where she had cradled him in her hand, now she cradled him in the cleft of her thighs. She arched, rubbing herself against him. His mouth was hot on hers, and his tongue speared her. It glided past her teeth and circled hers. He suckled her, drawing out her breath and laying her open to him.

She was fearless. She let him see she was vulnerable, that he could do anything to her. His hands slipped into her hair, stroking it, letting the corn silk strands fall between his splayed fingers like rainwater. He turned her head and kissed the back of her neck. His mouth sought the shell of her ear, and he whispered her name. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks. He sipped her skin at her shoulder and at the hollow of her throat. His tongue made a pass across her collarbone and dropped vertically, between her breasts at first, then flicking each nipple in turn.

He caressed her breasts, and they swelled under his palms. She moved restlessly, stretching, reaching. Her abdomen lifted as her back arched. She felt her thighs parting naturally around his hips. He stroked her from the underside of her breasts to her waist, then cupped her bottom. The sweet, musky fragrance of her moist sex was as heady as incense. Grey drew back and positioned himself between her thighs. He felt her hands brush his arms. She was reaching for him.