Private Dancer (15 page)

“Dah dah dum, dah-dah dah dum.” Arthur hummed the bump-and-grind stripper’s anthem, winking at her mischievously. He was obviously a little high, and Bev was beginning to feel the effects of the wine herself. Warmth was spreading up the back of her neck, and her earlobes were tingling.

“Here goes,” she said, rolling her shoulder as she peeled off the bandage. She ticked the patch back and forth as though she’d just removed a long black glove, and then she tossed it into the crowd.

Arthur convulsed in giggles as the bandage stuck to her fingers. “Goodness,” he said breathlessly, “I’m getting squiffy. How about you? Maybe we should dance it off?”

“What a brilliant idea!”

Bev felt a little squiffy herself as she and Arthur undulated to the sensual reggae rhythms. Her face was flushed with color, and the music pulsed around her irresistibly, as though it were daring her to let go of her concerns and give in to the festive mood. Her peasant blouse kept slipping off her shoulders as she danced, and for some reason that struck Arthur as enchantingly funny. He fought off one hit of giggles after another, and his efforts were so sweetly hilarious that Bev finally lost control too.

Arthur tried to take her in his arms as the music turned slow, but neither of them could dance worth a darn. Instead, they held on to each other helplessly, laughing, swaying. It was a good thing Sam hadn’t shown up, Bev decided as she wrapped her arms around Arthur’s neck. He wouldn’t like her having so much fun.

Bev didn’t know the half of it. Sam was there. He was posted not fifty feet from her, watching her every tipsy move. He’d been there the entire night, hidden in the shadows of the bandstand, a forbidding presence in his street uniform—jeans, T-shirt, and black leather jacket. One look at him, and Bev would have sobered up quickly. He was as silent and ominous as unexploded nitroglycerin.

Sam Nichols was having a bad night. He was fighting off a massive hangover, the urge to do serious bodily harm,
and
the annoying racket of his conscience, which was trying to tell him he had no business judging Bev for her behavior when he’d just tied one on the night before. His conscience was losing the battle.

Sam was a muscle twitch away from breaking up the whole damn party. One twitch. He didn’t like the way every male in the place was ogling Bev, including the ship’s captain. He didn’t like the way Arthur’s hands were glued to her swiveling hips, and he damn sure didn’t like the way she had draped herself on Arthur’s neck. If she didn’t settle down and start behaving herself, the winemaking festival was going up in flames.

Even the dress she had on made his head throb. It was one of those peasant jobbies with big flowers and flounces that hung off her shoulders and looked as though it was going to drop to the ground any second. She couldn’t be wearing a bra underneath the way she was jiggling, and if she guzzled any more wine, she was going to get totally swacked.

Swacked, he thought, not a half-bad idea. A primitive fantasy flashed through his tortured brain, and a grim smile surfaced, the first in days. His jaw clenched tighter as he pictured himself throwing her over his shoulder, hauling her off, and teaching her a thing or two about standard operating procedure. Spanking a fully grown woman as an object lesson was as obsolete as the horse-drawn carriage, but he didn’t give a damn about social history at the moment. He was so far gone, even his personal aversion to that kind of practice didn’t faze him. The fantasy brought him almost as much perverse satisfaction as the one where he drowned Arthur by dragging him behind the ship on a bowline.

He let the imagined scene roll through his mind again, slowly, detail for detail, until a little shriek of laughter brought him back to reality. By the time he looked up, Bev and Arthur were bouncing around in the vat of plums, Bev holding her skirts high and cavorting like an island nymph.

Sam’s self-control was already stretched past the breaking point when Bev’s dress slipped off her shoulder, nearly exposing a breast. Arthur let out a delighted gasp and tried to shield her as he pulled the material back up. Bev giggled and swiped at his marauding hands.

Sam saw red. Arthur may have been trying to help, but to Sam it looked like nothing more than a cheap excuse to fondle a woman’s breasts. He reached the wooden vat on a dead run, vaulting over the side, boots and all. “Back off, lover boy,” he said, shoving Arthur aside. The smaller man went down, disappearing in the purple glop.

“That man’s got his shoes on!” a woman screeched.

“Who is he?” another cried. “What’s he doing in here?”

“Sam?” Bev said, belatedly aware of his presence. She’d been trying to rescue Arthur, who couldn’t seem to stay on his feet. She turned unsteadily, abandoning Arthur to the glop. “When did you get here, Sam?”

“The party’s over, Lace.” Sam grabbed her hand and pulled her with him to the side of the vat. “You’re coming with me.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Bev mumbled as Sam strode up the gangplank of the cruise ship. She was unceremoniously draped over his shoulder and swinging like a bag of dirty laundry as the world floated by her, upside down. She knew she ought to be kicking and screaming and doing all the things abducted women did in the movies, but she didn’t have the stomach for it. Literally.

Nearly all the passengers and ship’s brass were at the festival, which left only a few waiters and crew members to gape as Sam ferried her through the ship’s narrow corridors.

“Put me down,” Bev whispered. “Everybody’s looking.”

“Let ’em look.”

“Why are you carrying me?” she demanded to know.

“Because you’re bombed on your butt.”

“My what? Where are we going?”

“The cabin,” Sam muttered. “And a nice cold shower.”

“Shower? No!”

Sam paid no attention to her halfhearted protest. Once they were in the cabin, he propped her up against the shower stall as he reached inside and turned the water on. “Get your clothes off,” he said. “You’re a sorry-looking mess.”

“Am not.” Bev glanced down dizzily at her magenta feet and legs, and then, with effort, she looked back up at Sam, trying to bring him into focus. He was fruit-splattered and demon-eyed, but there was the cutest little red blotch on his nose, a semi-crushed bit of passion plum. “Don’t look any worse than you do.”

“Ditch the island-nymph ensemble,” he said, “unless you want me to do it for you.”

She shook her head—and nearly lost her balance.

Exhaling a curse, Sam reluctantly grabbed a handful of her peasant blouse by its loose elastic neckline and dragged it down her torso, letting it lay in a pile at her feet. He stripped off her skirt next, leaving her standing there in nothing but her panties, her clothing a colorful pool at her feet.

Bev stared at her naked breasts, one plum-stained, one not. “How did that happen?” she asked absently.

Sam’s stomach fisted at the sight of her nearly nude body. She didn’t seem to be aware that he’d undressed her, and oddly, her nonchalance made her that much more irresistible. He wanted to touch her so badly, his teeth ached.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, turning her around and herding her into the shower. The sooner he got this object lesson over with, the better, he’d decided. There was no reasoning with a soused, half-naked woman. He’d get her sobered up and then he’d give her holy hell.

He no sooner had her in the shower with the door shut when she bounced back out again, dripping. “All done,” she chirped.

“Like hell. Get back in there.”

She shook her head, water flying in every direction.

“In that case, I’m coming in with you.” Sam pulled off his shirt and boots and pushed her back into the stall, crowding in behind her. The spray soaked them both instantly. “You’re not getting out of here until you can say your name backward.”

She began trying immediately. Before she was through, Sam had heard so many garbled versions of Beverly Jean, he wished he’d never brought it up.

“Veb?” she said finally, twisting around to grin at him.

“Enough chitchat,” Sam muttered.

It was a tight fit in the tiny shower stall, very tight. Bev insisted on wriggling around to face him, and the soft, wet squish of her breasts against his bare chest was enough to give Sam a serious muscle spasm in a vulnerable place. She was making him crazy, and what was worse, she didn’t seem to know it.

He whipped the cold knob on full force, but the closest he could get to an icy, sobering shower was a lukewarm spray. He held her under it anyway, letting the water run over her face and stream down her shoulders and chest. The sight of her wet and glistening breasts sent a lightning bolt of desire through him. Tension burned deep in the pit of his gut, flaring all the way to the soles of his feet.

“How are we doing?” he said, holding Bev back so he could inspect her.

“Who wants to know?” She smiled at him dreamily, as though she were thoroughly enjoying his dilemma, to whatever extent she was aware of it. Maybe instead of spanking her, he would dump her over the side and drag her behind the boat with Arthur. Maybe he’d do both!

In fact, Bev
was
enjoying herself. The world had stopped swinging, her stomach was pretty well settled, and she was thoroughly drenched with warm, sexy water. Even Sam seemed a little less edgy, or so her slightly foggy brain concluded from the fact that he’d joined her in the shower. She wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing in there with her, but it felt kind of pleasant pressed up against him. She hadn’t been this close to him in so long.

“You have a very nice chest,” she said. There were other things about him she could have mentioned, but she happened to be staring directly at his chest, and the streaming water was making fascinating patterns in his dark hair. He did have the most beautiful body hair.

“Thank you.” He smiled faintly. “Yours is nice too.”

“My chest?” She met his eyes and saw the fierce, dazzling blue they had become. The scar that drew at his mouth was nearly white from the tension in his jaw. Something about the way he looked made her strain a little harder to breathe, as though the steam in their tiny shower stall had absorbed all the oxygen. Her legs ached a little too, with that sweet, pulling sensation she’d come to associate with him.

A fanciful notion filled her head as she vaguely remembered how he’d dragged her out of the vat and thrown her over his shoulder. He could have been a ruthless Caribbean pirate, the decadent, bodice-ripping type who regularly abducted women for their own pleasure. He certainly looked ferocious enough. But wouldn’t a pirate be ravishing her by now? The possibility might have alarmed her if it hadn’t been for the soothing water. She felt as though her insides were streaming with warmth, smooth and silvery, everything gone to liquid. She didn’t have a muscle or a bone in her body.

“Don’t you just love showers?” she said, letting her head loll back and the water run over her face.

“Careful,” he said, catching hold of her.

His hands slid down her back, one of them ending up very near her derriere. The sudden feel of him there sent an erotic lightning bolt through Bev. It was a sensation as sharp and bitingly sweet as the snap of leather recoiling in the air. She’d never felt anything so riveting.

“What are you doing?” she asked softly, a gasp in her voice.

“Keeping you on your feet. We don’t want an accident in the shower, do we?”

“No. No accidents.” Suddenly aware of him in a very different way, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Details leaped out at her with dizzying clarity. The flare of his nostrils when he breathed, the aggressive bones of his face overlaid by fine-grained tawny skin. Had he always been so tall, and broad at the shoulders? He seemed to be touching the shower stall on both sides. She felt surrounded by him, completely engulfed.

He moved against her, and she felt the heaviness of wet denim abrading her bare skin. “Do you know you have your jeans on?” she asked.

He smiled, his eyes darkening. “I think the party girl is finally sobering up.”

No, Bev wasn’t sober, not by a long shot. She was simply aware. Suddenly, painfully aware of him, of herself, and of the sensual signals coursing riotously through her body. She could feel him through the wet denim. He was hard against her, huge against her. The constant thrumming pressure on her pelvic bone set off an explosion of excitement deep in her belly. She felt dizzy and drunk again. Dizzy with sensation, drunk with wanting to see and touch what was underneath the denim.

“Couldn’t be very comfortable,” she said, looking up at him. “Wet jeans.”

“Not comfortable,” he agreed, “but safe.”

Their eyes met, and Bev fell silent. He knew, she realized. He knew she was tingling with curiosity and excitement. Burning. It was as though he’d been eavesdropping on her thoughts.

“If the jeans bother you ...” he said.

“You could take them off,” she suggested.

His voice got husky. “Or you could.”

Bev’s heart went wild as he reached for her hand and drew it to the button fly of his jeans.

It occurred to her that she ought to protest, but she was driven by curiosity. She moved her fingers gingerly, each new discovery sending another lightning bolt through her. When she finally found the top button, it was slick and stubborn, refusing to cooperate as she tried to force it through the shrunken opening. “I can’t,” she said, frustration surging in her voice.

He took over, silently freeing each button.

He wore no underwear.

Bev’s breathing deepened, growing slow as he brought her hand back. She touched him, and a shock wave of sensation ripped through her hand. He was rigid and hot to the touch, like steel and silk about to burst into flames. She curled her hand around him, forgetting to be frightened, and he let out a sound that was as racked with anguish as it was ecstasy.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, knowing she hadn’t hurt him. She was giving him more pleasure than he could bear. Her fingers curved instinctively to the shape of him.

“Enough,” he pleaded. But she couldn’t stop. Touching him thrilled her. It filled her with a harsh, nameless yearning that clutched at her vitals.