Kissed by Moonlight (9 page)

It was the last straw. And putting it on and seeing how transparent it was, she realized with a harsh laugh that a straw would have provided more effective cover. She didn't know why she'd even bothered to try it on because she had no intention of wearing such a tantalizing garment.

She twisted curiously in front of the mirror, shocked and intrigued by her appearance. Even complete nakedness would not have looked so enticing. At the slightest movement, the swaying sensuality of the material emphasized a smoldering sexuality she hadn't known she possessed. The opalescent gleam of her soft curves was more than a mere invitation, it was almost a demand to be ravished. Her breasts were pure provocation; her tiny waist and slenderly curved hips acquired a sinuousness that was wanton incitement.

She hadn't realized that the bedroom had become her stage, that she was emulating the movements of a dance, or that at some point during the performance she had acquired an audience until she heard David's amused drawl.

“Do I applaud, make a grab, or contain myself for the finale?”

A wave of white-hot embarrassment rushed over her as she swung her chin up to face him in angry defiance. “There's no finale.”

“No?” he queried.

“I didn't know you were there,” she said a little desperately as the gleam in his eyes forced her to lower hers.

Even with her lashes glued together and her chin tucked into her throat, she could not shut out the feeling of his eyes stripping her of the flimsy concealment of her nightgown. They stalked her with the primitive passion of an animal who's been given the scent and intends to move in for the kill. The sensual exploration of his gaze was like a finger skimming her body and touching all the vulnerable, sensitive areas.

“And I thought that delightful spectacle was put on for my benefit,” he drawled unpleasantly.

“You could have said something to let me know you were there,” she said in steadfast recrimination, making herself look at him.

“How could I? I was bereft of speech. It seems there's a side to my demure little Pet I had no idea existed.”

He thought that she'd done it deliberately, and in fairness she knew that was how it must have looked. She had brought this shame on herself. It was ridiculous to blame the nightgown, yet in putting it on she'd cast off pride and modesty and acquired a different personality.

He had removed his tie and his jacket and was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. “It's bedtime, Pet.”

The emphasis he put on the words drained the color from her cheeks and then brought it rushing back again.

Why had she wasted time on a whimsy that was so out of character with her nature? Why, when she realized her cotton nightgown was missing, hadn't she gone straight to the drawer where she'd put her spare nightgown? Why was she wasting time thinking about it now? Why didn't she do it?

She reached the drawer; her fingernails scraped the handle. His arms came around her middle and closed over her stomach to lift her back against his body. His mouth dropped to her neck, scorching over the already highly sensitized skin.

“Please, David, no,” she gasped in useless appeal.

“After all the trouble you've gone to? It would be ungallant for me not to be suitably appreciative.”

He swung her around. One hand kept hold of her while the other fingered the delicate tracery of lace at her breast. She found she had to draw in her breath in quick shallow gulps. She couldn't seem to get enough air into her lungs.

“The nightgown ... it was a mistake.”

“Sure it was, Pet,” he said, his finger sliding beneath the lace with a tantalizingly light touch. “A mistake. Cry about it tomorrow. Enjoy it now.”

As her heart slid sideways, a genuine feeling of weakness assailed her. “David.” Her voice quivered on tears as she tried to reason with him. “You can't mean to ...” She could not go on.

His eyes passed sentence as they gloated over her in taut triumph. “Oh, but I do.”

In the captivity of his loosely held arms, she knew intuitively that if she used force to escape, his hold would tighten. She didn't want that. She knew just how much her resolve would be worth if she felt the hard muscular strength of him. She knew that her resistance would melt into response. Even now, while she was still mentally holding him off, she could feel a languorous weakness creeping insidiously into her limbs.

He was accomplished in all the tricks. The one he was employing now by way of a starter was devastatingly effective. He'd put his own passion on ice, conserving himself while bringing her to heel with a playful process of light touches that were not followed up. His hands made butterfly movements over her breasts. It was torment to be touched and yet not to be touched.

His mouth played the same insouciant game, coming down on hers not in passion, but lightly, exhorting her to respond. Against her will, she found herself straining up to him. It required only a few more moments of patient restraint on his part and he could have molded her to his command. But he mistimed it. He came in too soon, before she was ready to yield to him.

The switch from light teasing to hard passion was too abrupt for her to adjust. She tensed away from the bruising demands of his mouth; she panicked as his loose hold turned into a grip of iron. She reacted to a wild, animal instinct to break free from this choking stranglehold and escape the primitive sensation of thigh against thigh, the steel domination of his hands on the small of her back. The tiny flame of terror, fanned into being by her dread of the unknown rather than revulsion, exploded into a holocaust of fear.

It wasn't until she glimpsed the expression on his face that the truth dawned on her. She knew what her struggling to get free was achieving. Of course he hadn't mistimed. This was what he wanted.

The knowledge came too late. He was sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her over to the bed. Everything she did was wrong. When she held off, she incited him; when she didn't, she incited him more.

“It's no good looking at me with those huge remonstrative eyes,” he said sternly, as he not ungently lowered her onto the bed. “I warned you that if you gave me the go signal once more there'd be no going back on it.”

She closed her lashes in silent despair and felt the bed give as he added his weight to it. The warmth of his body couldn't warm the root of frozen fear inside her.

The trembling in her lower lip spread to her limbs. She began to shake with violent ague. She bit hard on her lip in an attempt to regain some semblance of tranquillity and stop the spasms.

“It will be all right,” he soothed. “Relax.”

“I'm trying to,” she stammered through quivering lips.

He held his head back and viewed her critically. “No one could be this scared. You're ill. Why didn't you tell me? How long have you been like this?”

“I guess since lunchtime.” Her relief that he had stopped was evident in her voice. “It comes and goes. I'm fine one moment and the next I feel positively ghastly.”

He touched her forehead. “You're burning up. Just what have you been doing – or overdoing – today?”

“This morning I went swimming in the sea.”

“And then?”

“I was wet.”

“Naturally.”

“And s-so I dried off in the sun.” She frowned. “I knew I should have bought a sun hat
sooner
rather than
later.
Have I got sunstroke?”

“What do you expect with your fair skin and no sun hat. Throat dry?”

“Yes.”

The bed creaked and lightened. “I'll get you something to drink and an extra blanket.”

“I don't want an extra blanket. I'm too hot as it is. Why don't you shout at me and call me a fool for staying out too long in the sun?”

“What good would that do?”

“I'm sorry, David,” she said apathetically, feeling slightly cheered that she wasn't going to be scolded.

She could remember the comfort of the drink David brought her and very little else. She couldn't remember his getting back into bed with her. She didn't know a thing until she woke next morning to find him there beside her.

It was a very strange, not at all unpleasant sensation to realise she'd shared her bed with a man, with this man.

She stole a shy look at his undeniably handsome profile. Once his even breathing had assured her he was not awake, she leaned up on her elbow to see him better. His rumpled hair, which revealed a tendency to curl, wasn't at all in keeping with his urbane, coldly professional facade. He had shed several years in sleep and not only did he look less formidable, but to see him now one could almost be forgiven for thinking he was a soft touch. Sleep had robbed his mouth of scorn and had given him back the vulnerable look he'd had as a boy. His eyelids were closed over the cynicism that lurked so near the surface in his blue eyes, and the tender sweep of his eyelashes on his deeply suntanned face added a touch of unconscious sensuality. He was on his back with one arm slung at a nonchalant angle over his head.

He moved, turning slightly in her direction, but his lashes remained firmly closed and she was convinced he had stirred in his sleep. So she released her held breath and continued to enjoy him with her eyes.

Considering that his job employed more brain power than brawn he was very powerfully built. He had strong, muscular shoulders and a lean torso with ribs covered only by strong, gleaming muscles and deeply tanned skin. The bedclothes barely covered his midriff and she had a strong suspicion that he wasn't wearing anything apart from the gold chain around his neck. A medallion was suspended from the finely chased links and rested in the dark hairs on his chest.

She was just thinking that such a frank stare would not be possible if he were awake and making a reciprocal appraisal, when his eyes opened. He sat up and the bed clothes shifted, confirming her suspicion about his nakedness. But that wasn't the sum total of her consternation. The devil gleam in his eye and the peculiar lift of his mouth provided advance warning that he'd been awake for some moments. She blushed before he uttered a word.

“Well, what's the verdict? Do I pass?”

“You ... I thought you were asleep,” she said, averting her eyes.

“Did you?” he said, as his eyes laughed lazily over her face. A sinewy muscle rippled against her neck as he reached to take a handful of her hair as leverage and twisted her face around to his. “Just in case you have any plans that don't coincide with mine, like leaping out of bed.”

“It's what I usually do when I wake up,” she said, her demure voice at variance with her alerted senses. A tingling exhilaration raced through her body, paced by a strange ache. The last thing she wanted to do was leap out of bed. She wanted to snuggle down into bed, close beside him.

She found herself doing this, not exactly following her inclinations but responding to the tugging pain in her scalp as his fingers tightened more forcefully in the tangled strands of her hair to bring her down.

“And how do you feel this morning, Mrs. Palmer?”

“I'm better.”

His lips moved over her shoulder to her throat, seducing the arched column of her neck with kisses, tormenting the corner of her mouth, tasting her earlobe". The intensity of feeling built up, and the ague was back.

The smile on his mouth was swallowed in a groan of concern for her and dismay for himself. “You're shaking. Pet, please don't have a relapse on me.”

“I'm not ill now. I'm what you first thought I was when I started shaking last night.”

“Scared?” he puzzled.

“M'm.”

“Don't be, my Pet.”

He smooth-talked her all the way; his fingers caressed and persuaded with an understanding and sensitivity that took every part of her into his protection and demanded, and got, her complete trust. Her heart filled with more love for him than she had thought possible and she gave herself to him in awesome adoration at his gentleness. His approach was casual, as if he knew her tormented senses could not take too much at once. In this way she barely realized the moment of trauma had passed until the bliss was upon her, drawing her into its enthralling grip.

She lay in his arms, hugging to her that unforgettable, perfect moment, that magical exaltation. The surprise and beauty of it brought tears to her eyes. David kissed them away, tender in his concern, fearful they were tears of pain and not jewels of happiness.

Her fingers were tightly entwined around his neck. Even when he no longer possessed her, she still clung to him, reluctant to drag herself away, savoring the sweetness of the afterglow. She knew that Justine had had no place in his thoughts that morning, and all her fears of the other woman were quickly fading before the glow in David's eyes.

“Well?” he said, looking deeply into her eyes in a way that suggested he'd had a few surprises himself.

She had taken no conscious initiative, her fingers had made no love play, but as his body had cherished her inexperience, hers had drawn deeply on its instincts to harmonize with his in artless simplicity.

“Was it so obvious it was my first time?” she asked, feeling suddenly very shy.

“What an ingenue you are,” he said in mocking delight as though the thought pleased him.

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“Yes, it was obvious.”

“But not at first? It was something you found out as you went along?”

“Yes.” He grinned. “You still haven't told me what you thought of it.”

“It was all right, I suppose. The actual thing rarely lives up to the expectation,” she said wickedly, paying him back for not knowing she was a virgin.

His reply was as swift as it was predictable. “That was just a rehearsal.” One eyebrow arched. “We'll get better, but we'll have to practice every spare moment we can.”

“I was joking!” she gasped.