Jo Goodman (28 page)

"In a moment," he said hoarsely. Then he bent his head and took her with his mouth.

Air spilled from Berkeley's lungs at this first touch of his lips. His tongue darted along her damp skin. He plunged, jabbed. The intimate caress deepened. His teeth scraped the fleshy hood. His tongue flicked again, snakelike in the beginning, tormenting her, then finally came more evenly, with soft insistent strokes that were like velvet over sandpaper. Berkeley's fingers fell away from Grey's shoulders and curled in the sheets. Her head tilted back. She pressed her lips together. A soundless cry vibrated in her throat.

Threads of tension pulled her legs taut. Pleasure spiraled outward to the tips of her fingers. She radiated heat as a flush swept just below the surface of her skin.

Grey raised his head. He leaned over her. "I want to hear you," he whispered against her mouth. His hips twisted; he ground himself against her open thighs. "Let me hear you."

Berkeley's jaw unclenched as she drew in a ragged breath. She sipped the air, her inarticulate moan the beginning of her first wild cry. She clutched him, his name coming from her lips as if torn from her.

"Oh, sweet... sweet." Grey covered her mouth with his and absorbed her cries after that. "I need to be inside you," he told her. Urgency and hunger made his voice hoarse and almost unrecognizable. The words were muffled against her lips. "Take me in."

Berkeley felt Grey's hips rise, then her bottom was lifted and he surged forward. He took her deeply with the first stroke, plunging past every point of resistance before he recognized them for what they were.

He held himself still. She surrounded him so tightly he could feel when she drew her first uneven sob. He didn't have to see her eyes to know they were wounded, and he didn't have to feel her flinch to know he had hurt her. Grey swore softly when her muscles contracted around him. "For God's sake, don't do that," he whispered harshly. "Don't move."

Berkeley didn't think she had moved at all. Now she tried not to breathe.

"You can breathe," he told her. "Just don't do the other."

Not certain what "the other" was, Berkeley just inhaled very slowly.

"Bloody, bloody hell." He began to withdraw.

Berkeley winced. She reached for his shoulders and grasped them. "Please, not yet... not yet."

"You don't know what you're asking." In spite of that. Grey remained exactly where he was.

Berkeley's breathing calmed. The pain of his entry had disappeared. What she felt now was a heavy pressure as her body strove to accommodate him. By slow degrees she began to relax. It didn't matter that he was still hard inside her; what mattered was that she could be soft around him and still hold him there. "I don't want it to be over," she said softly. "Is it over? I think there should be more. I can stand it now. I promise you that I can."

Grey wished he could see her face clearly. It would be worth seeing for that look of earnestness and innocence. And she was still innocent. Berkeley Shaw was probably the single woman in the whole of the world that he could bury himself in to the hilt and she would remain unquestionably innocent.

"It's not over," he said. Then he began to move slowly.

Berkeley sighed and closed her eyes. The pressure had become an aching fullness that was actually quite nice. There was a rhythm here, a natural cadence like the ebb and flow of the tides. She let the power of it wash over her at first, then rose up to meet it. Her hips lifted and fell as he surged forward and withdrew. She held him loosely with her arms and more tightly and most intimately where they were joined.

Berkeley touched his face. Her fingertips brushed his cheek. His skin was warm, taut. She wished she had not asked him to turn back the lamp.

It was unexpected that she would feel heat uncurl at the center of her again. She had only been meeting the waves, then suddenly she was riding one of the crests. Pleasure skimmed her. Her entire body arched as Grey's rhythm changed and his thrusts became shallow and quickened. It was his breathing that matched hers now, a slightly strained rasp as his breath caught in his throat. He pushed into her again, and this time her body contracted around him. He was not proof against that. Every taut nerve vibrated with pleasure as he sank himself into her with one deeply satisfying final thrust.

The air was cool on her flushed and heated body. Berkeley tugged a sheet as high as her breasts when Grey moved away from her and onto his side. She supposed she should say something to him, though she hadn't any idea what it might be. She fell asleep mulling over the possibilities.

Grey slipped out of bed and padded quietly to the dressing room. He closed the door before he lit one of the lamps but did nothing about the thin stream of yellow light that slid under it. He poured water into the basin and washed himself. The cloth came away tinged pink with Berkeley's blood. Grey wrung it out. He opened a window and tossed out the water. Someone below shouted, but Grey didn't hear. He pulled on a pair of drawers and tied the drawstring loosely around his waist. He sat down in a wing chair next to the open window and propped his feet on a padded stool. A breeze eddied into the room and ruffled his hair. Grey let his head fall back and closed his eyes.

Falling asleep was the furthest thing from his mind when he did it.

* * *

The bed was stripped and Berkeley was gone when Grey woke a few hours later. Pandora slipped into his suite as soon as he opened the door. Except for the cat, the hallway was empty. Grey visited Mike before performing any of his usual morning rituals. He discovered that not only was Mike able to sit up in bed, but that it had been Berkeley who had helped him there. She had also been responsible for carrying his breakfast tray from the kitchen to his room. "Busy, busy lady," he muttered to himself on the journey back to his room.

Pandora was still there, and she puttered around Grey's legs while he washed, shaved, and cleaned his teeth. "Water's not the only thing I can toss out that window," he told the cat. As if daring him, she leaped up to the open sill and rested herself upon it with an air of supreme confidence. Grey stared at her a moment, then walked over and closed the window. "Stupid cat, you could have fallen."

Grey ate breakfast in Annie Jack's kitchen. He wasn't entirely certain the cook had ever been to sleep, but lack of shut-eye didn't affect her mood or her energy. She still ordered her helpers around in a tone that was just short of thunderous and completed tasks herself when everyone else was too slow for her tastes. Grey sat on a stool beside the butcher's block while he ate flapjacks and watched the goings-on with interest and no comment. "I think I'm terrified of you, Annie," he told the cook when he finished his plate.

She stopped in her tracks and blushed deeply beneath her coffee-colored skin. The assistant she had been haranguing slunk away while Annie's head was turned. "Go on with you, Mr. Janeway," she said as though accepting a pretty compliment. "Ain't no cause for you to be 'fraid of Annie. Leastways, not if you've done nothin' wrong." She gave him a mock-serious look. "You haven't done nothin' wrong, have you?"

Grey decided to leave quickly before he admitted to all his sins, real and imagined. He complimented Annie and her helpers on last evening's success and thanked her for breakfast. "Has anyone here seen Miss Shaw this morning?" he asked casually as he was on the point of going.

All three of Annie's assistants raised their hands with some reluctance and looked to the cook for guidance. Annie stood there with both her hands firmly on her hips, her generous mouth pursing in disapproval. "She was here just about an hour ago and lookin' like the stuffin' was knocked out of her. Didn't bat an eye when Annie shooed her out."

"You gave her something to eat, didn't you?" Grey asked.

" 'Course Annie did. Miss Berkeley had herself two soft-cooked eggs and finished them just yonder on the other side of that door. Mark my words, Mr. Janeway, that girl's got somethin' inside her that's purely unnatural. You shouldn't make her call up the spirits to your friends like she did last night. Can't be a good thing come of it."

"I'll take it under advisement," Grey said dryly. He started to leave again and stopped. "One more thing, Annie. Did Miss Shaw come through here with someone yesterday evening?"

"More like the wee hours of the morning," Annie told him. She looked to her assistants for confirmation. There was unanimous agreement through a show of head nodding. "Don't rightly know the gentleman's name. Tall drink of water though. Looked a might uncomfortable. Not the same man who tore out of here later. Annie didn't get a good look at that one."

"It's all right," Grey said. "I know who the second man was." He left the kitchen for the gaming hall. Sam Hartford was at the bar supervising the delivery and stocking of liquor. Shawn and Donnel Kincaid were sharing a table while they looked over plans spread across the top. They all greeted Grey with congratulations on the successful opening.

Grey met with them briefly and reviewed plans for taking in the Phoenix's first overnight guests that afternoon. Donnel had a list of employees for Grey to look over. Most of the rooms were already spoken for. Some men had reserved space for themselves almost as soon as Grey announced he was rebuilding the Phoenix after the last quake. When word got around that he intended to have permanent rooms to let, the clamor for them began. With Mike occupying one until he was fit to leave California and Berkeley in a suite of her own, there were only three rooms that hadn't been reserved. It was Grey's belief that they remained because no one knew they were still available. "They'll fill up today," he told the others. "As soon as someone realizes there's a bed to be had."

"A clean one to boot," Shawn chuckled. "God, when I first came here I slept on a table and paid the owner dearly for it."

"I had the ground," Donnel told them. "It was free. Blankets were five dollars each and that was to rent one, not own it."

Sam spoke from behind the bar he was rubbing down. "Slept my first two nights in a trough. First one didn't cost me a penny. Second night, though, when the owner found me, damn if it didn't cost me plenty to keep him from filling it with water."

Grey watched them all turn in his direction. It was clear they expected him to share a similar story about his early days in the city. The bed he was thinking about, however, was the one upstairs. "Have any of you seen Miss Shaw this morning?" he asked.

"She went out as the liquor was coming in," Sam said. "Said something about a walk. I offered to go with her, but she didn't want the company. I don't imagine she'll be gone long, and there's no need to worry that she'll end up in Sydney Town. Not after yesterday."

Grey's mouth flattened, not liking what he heard. What he liked even less was that he couldn't do anything about it. "Sam, do you remember what Miss Shaw was wearing last night?"

Sam Hartford grinned. His eyes creased deeply at the corners. "It was the royal blue gown with the beaded bodice, fitted sleeves, and the plain skirt. Her train had a contrasting border of blue floss silk, and she wore little satin boots that laced on the inside." He ignored Grey's scowl and accepted the light, humorous applause from Shawn and Donnel. "It was one of the gowns Ivory gave me, remember? The one she offered to you at no cost."

Grey
did
remember now that Sam jogged his memory. His chair scraped the floor hard as he pushed away from the table. "I'll be back in an hour or so. If Miss Shaw returns, don't let her leave again without seeing me first."

* * *

Ivory DuPree was not alone in her room when Grey came calling. Grey waited patiently by the fireplace, his smile in check, while Anthony Bottoms gathered up his trousers, shirt, and stockings and was shooed into the hall. Ivory tossed his boots out a moment later. Their odd thumping sound as they landed made Grey think at least one of them caught Anthony squarely in the back.

Ivory flounced back to bed. It was something of an accomplishment given the fact she was quite naked. She picked up her silk wrapper and slipped it on. "I hope you have a very good reason for being here," she said, casting him a stern glance over her shoulder. "Anthony was one of my better customers, and I just sent him packing."

Grey distinctly remembered the gambler holding up proof that he was taking a clipper out of San Francisco. "Isn't he leaving the city today?"

"Of course he is, but that doesn't mean he won't be back. Now I doubt he'll recall much about our evening except that it ended rather badly." She turned around and belted her robe. "So, what's this about, Mr. Janeway? I haven't seen you since you latched on to that... umm,
hostess
of yours. Miss Shaw, is it?"

God, Grey thought wearily, Ivory was angry at him. The very last thing he felt like doing this morning was smoothing her ruffled flounces. "I'm sorry, Ivory, about not thanking you personally for the gowns you gave up. It was generous of you."

This didn't mollify her in the least. "I was hoping you'd have a job for me," she said. "You let me believe something like that could be in the offing last month. Or has your... umm,
association
with Miss Shaw changed that?"

Grey ignored Ivory's second flagrant attempt to needle him. "There's a position for you anytime you want to work the tables at my place," he said. "But no whoring with the overnight guests. The Phoenix isn't a brothel."

"Go to hell."

"I'll take that as a 'no.' "