Storm Over the Lake (13 page)

“I don't care,” he whispered deeply. “I want to kiss you. Close your eyes, little girl. I'll make it good for both of us…”

Trembling, burning, she let her heavy eyelids fall. She felt his mouth touch hers, whisper across it, and then, suddenly, burrow into it with a hunger that shook her heart. His big arms contracted like sunburned rawhide around her, hurting in their own hunger, bruising her. And for the first time, she held on to him, kissing him back with a fervor she'd never felt. And it was like dying, drifting, with the world falling out from under her feet, and she loved him…loved him!

He drew back, and she felt the tremor in his hard arms as he looked down at her with a tenderness in his face she wondered at.

“Not here,” he whispered huskily. “Come on.”

He caught her hand and strode out the back door, down the steps toward the car, towing her along behind him.

He opened the door of the Mercedes and put her inside, sliding in beside her.

“Where…where are we going?” she asked, mindless, breathless with the effects of his ardor.

He reached out and drew her back into his arms, lifting her across his chest to lie with her head pillowed on his shoulder. “We're not going anywhere,” he murmured quietly. “I wanted to be alone with you, and this was the only readily available spot. Don't talk, honey. Don't talk. Just feel, Dana…”

His mouth found hers again, tasting it, cherishing it with a lazy thoroughness that was vaguely reassuring. She reached trembling fingers up to caress his warm, hard jaw, the cool black silky hair at his temples, at the back of his head.

“Here,” he whispered, his teeth nipping gently at her lower lip as he caught her hand and placed it on his broad chest.

She let her palm go flat against him, loving the strength and warmth under her cool fingers as she savored the tender crush of his mouth.

“Well?” he murmured.

“What?” she asked against his lips.

He drew back, his eyes puzzled, his heavy brows drawn together in a frown. His hand covered hers where it lay still against his chest. “Dana, haven't you ever touched a man…My God, child, I never realized just how unworldly you are until this minute,” he breathed softly.

He flicked open the buttons of his shirt and moved her hand into the thick hair over the warm muscles.

Her hand stiffened unsurely and she felt rather than saw the patient smile on his face as he bent down toward her. “You touched me that night we were dancing in the cabin,” he reminded her softly.

“I…I know, but it was different somehow,” she breathed. “Adrian, you must know that you could…that I couldn't stop you…” She faltered over the words.

His lips brushed her hot cheek. “I know it very well, Persephone,” he murmured quietly. “Why do you think I brought you out here instead of taking you into the den and locking the door?”

She let her head slide back on his hard arm so that she could look up into his eyes,
quiet eyes in the dim light that sliced across the front seat from the house windows.

He let the back of his fingers run down her cheek, against her soft throat, into the opening of her low necked blouse, feeling her tremble under the slow caress.

“Do you let Pat Melbourne touch you like this?” he asked suddenly, the very quietness of his deep voice a threat in itself.

Under the spell of his lips, his deft, warm hands, it took a minute for the words to penetrate her swaying mind.

“Pat? He's my friend,” she whispered. “He doesn't touch me at all.”

“Doesn't he?” His eyes narrowed to slits. “You've been out with him every night for a week, and you expect me to believe that it's been platonic every minute?”

She tugged out of his arms, and sat up, gaping at him. “Yes, I expect you to believe it, because it's the truth!” she threw at him.

“Is it, really?” he gazed at her with
contempt in every line of his face. “God, you're easy,” he said silkily. “All it took was one kiss, and you'd have followed me straight into my bedroom, wouldn't you, Meredith?”

She felt her face go white. He could think that…when she loved him enough to follow him straight into hell, and he couldn't see it.

Her eyes closed on a humiliation she couldn't bear him seeing. “I'll go back and finish the dishes,” she said in a strained voice, reaching for the door handle.

“Do that.” He reached in his pocket for keys. “I'm going back to the house. Fayre's waiting for me.”

T
he cold words haunted her all through the long night. “Fayre's waiting for me.” She wanted to find a hole and crawl into it. How could he, how could he?! The only good thing that had come out of that cruel night was that Lillian hadn't come out and seen the whiteness of her face, the tears trickling freely down her cheeks as she cried like a young girl.

Was it some form of vengeance, she wondered, and cursed her own stupidity
for letting him see how much she wanted his kisses. That had amused him. And gave him the impression that she was an easy mark. At least he hadn't realized that she was in love with him. His blindness had been her salvation.

When morning came, her eyes were bloodshot and her face showed the effects of three hours' sleep. She used more makeup than she ever had to camouflage it, wondering all the while if Adrian had come back in the night, or if he planned to come back at all.

After breakfast she had the answer. Frank came with the car to take her and Lillian, who was wearing a puzzled frown, back to Atlanta.

They walked in the front door to find Fayre coming jauntily down the stairs with an overnight case in her hand. Dana felt something die inside her, and clutched her pride to her like a shield. She met Fayre's smiling face with a schooled indifference that made lights flash in the little blonde's pale eyes.

“Well, good morning,” she cooed. “Did you have a good time at the lake?”

“An interesting one, anyway,” Dana said coolly.

“That's nice. Well, I must be off. I have to…catch up on my sleep,” she said with a secretive smile and simulated self-consciousness. “Goodbye. Tell Adrian I'll call him later.”

Adrian! Dana managed a tight smile. “Of course.”

Fayre went out the front door with a triumphant little laugh.

“Tramp!” Lillian whispered harshly, staring at the closed door. “What in this world has gotten into the Mister?!”

“Lillian!” came a roar from upstairs. “Get up here!”

Lillian's eyes narrowed. “He'll wish I hadn't,” she promised, her lips set and her eyes flashing as she mounted the staircase.

Dana set her case under the hall table and went straight into the study. She sat down at the desk and got out the correspondence left over from Thursday. In
minutes, her fingers were busy on the keys of the typewriter.

Lillian stuck her head in the door on the way upstairs with a tray of steaming coffee.

“If it's any consolation,” she grinned, “he's got a head the size of all outdoors, and I think he hates himself. He must have really tied one on last night.”

That was strange, she thought, what was there to make him drink? Or maybe, she sighed, Fayre had given him a reason.

By late afternoon, Adrian was back on his feet and in a darkly dangerous mood.

“Have you got an evening gown?” he asked Dana, pausing beside her desk as he picked up the telephone.

“Yes,” she said shortly.

“Go put it on. There's a cocktail party at the Jamesons' tonight and we're going to discuss opening an outlet store. I'll need you there to take notes.”

“Wouldn't a tape recorder do?” she asked coldly.

He gazed down at her with narrowed eyes. “I feel like hell,” he said quietly.
“Keep it up, and I can guarantee you'll feel the same way when I'm through with you.”

She clammed up. With a heavy sigh, she left the typewriter and went upstairs to change clothes. It was going to be a perfectly horrible evening. She dreaded it even as she put on the clinging brandy colored knit dress and started working on her makeup.

She almost put her hair into a bun because she knew he hated it, but his mood was unpredictable, and she had visions of him ripping hairpins out in front of a startled group of partygoers. She left it long and loose and went downstairs with all the gaiety of a condemned woman walking to the gallows.

He came out of the den, checking his cuffs, devastatingly handsome in his black evening clothes, his black hair still damp from a shower. He smelled of expensive cologne, and just the sight of the man was enough to quicken her pulse.

His dark eyes swept up and down her body with a slow, thorough boldness that
made her burn. “If you'd been wearing that last night…” He left it unsaid, but she anticipated the words and blushed.

“Come on, Dana, we don't want to be late,” he said carelessly, holding the door open for her.

“No, sir,” she said deliberately.

And this time, he didn't argue.

 

The Jamesons had a large brick home on a wooded lot that was every bit as big as Adrian's. Dana's first impression inside the house was of crystal and light. Even the guests seemed to glitter.

“Don't let it intimidate you,” Adrian told her. “The Jamesons are just people. Very nice people.”

She only nodded, feeling lost and alone and vaguely afraid. Crowds bothered her. They always had.

“Reporters are supposed to love crowds and strangers and bright lights,” Adrian reminded her gently. He reached down for her hand and felt it tremble in his firm, warm grasp, curling up in a token protest. “Stay close to me, little taffy kitten,” he murmured, softly, “and I'll protect you.”

“Who'll protect me from you?” she grumbled unsteadily.

His fingers moved on hers gently, seductively, entwining with hers against all her better judgment as she let him force her taut hand open. “Trust me.”

“I can't,” she whispered unsteadily. “I can't ever trust you again.”

“Was it seeing Fayre come down those stairs this morning?” he asked solemnly.

“I don't particularly care where Miss Braunns sleeps,” she told him with a calm indifference that was quite convincing.

His jaw set menacingly. “No more than you care where you sleep?”

She didn't have to answer him. The Jamesons appeared suddenly, drawing the two of them into the room with laughter and introductions that made Dana's mind whirl. They were, as Adrian had said, nice people. But they were also strangers, and they made her nervous.

Adrian grasped her hand tightly in his and kept her close by his side until they had made the rounds of the guests.

Then he drew her with him out to the
patio, where several couples had a massive stereo set up and were dancing to soft music under the torch lamps and shards of moonlight filtering through the trees.

“I…thought you came here to talk business,” Dana protested as he took her into his big arms and began to dance.

“I'm going to get you calmed down first,” he replied gently. “Relax, honey. Just relax, they're people like the rest of us, and they're probably every bit as nervous as you are.”

“How did you know I was nervous?” she asked him.

He only smiled. “I know you very well, Miss Meredith,” he replied quietly.

“You think you do,” she countered, letting her body relax just a little in the close, comforting circle of his hard arms.

His big hand ran down her smooth bare back to the zipper, then down still lower to her waist over the smooth material, slow and gentle and caressing.

“This is too inhibiting,” he murmured at her temple.

She felt her cheeks burn. “Will you
please remember that my name is Dana, not Fayre?” she asked icily.

A soft, deep chuckle passed his lips. “Were you jealous, little cat?” he asked.

“Of you? You're my boss, not my…” she paused over the word.

“…lover?” he supplied, and drew back enough to look down into her soft brown eyes. “No, I'm not, but I'd like to be.”

She jerked her gaze down to his dark jacket. “I wouldn't like it,” she denied huskily.

“Then why did you follow me out to the Mercedes?” he taunted. “For all you know, I might have been taking you to a motel room.”

“You wouldn't do that.”

He caught her eyes. “You're learning,” he said gently.

She glared up at him, all the anguish coming back. “I'm not easy!” she threw at him.

“Not with other men, no,” he said, and his hand tightened around hers. “But you are with me, and I want to know why.”

“It's a fixation,” she lied glibly. “I've
always been crazy about Anthony Quinn, and you remind me of him in a physical sense.”

He laughed softly down at her, his eyes kind and strangely tolerant. “As I recall, Quinn usually gets the girl in the final scene,” he said meaningfully.

Her pale brown eyes glared at him. “You'll never get me!”

He was looking past her shoulder at something. “Won't I, Dana?” he asked absently.

His hand left her waist to move caressingly against her throat. He lowered his head, herding hers back against his shoulder while his breath made a warm wind at her lips.

“Adrian…” she whispered, starting to protest.

“They're not paying attention to us,” he murmured, and his mouth opened to brush slowly across hers. “Do you like this?” he whispered seductively.

“Devil!” she moaned.

“Yes,” he whispered, coaxing her lips to follow his.

“Heartless…devil!”

“Yes, honey, yes,” he murmured, his breath making chills against her moist lips.

“Adrian…!”

And something flashed as she hung there, her lips open and pleading as his met them briefly, open and demanding. Flashed, making her jump, breaking the spell, bruising her heart. A camera…somewhere.

She drew back, aware of smiling, teasing glances that caused her to blush. Without a word, she turned and went inside.

Adrian was two steps behind her. Her caught her hand again and locked her fingers with his.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“Those people…staring,” she muttered.

He only chuckled. “Things were getting interesting. I can make you burn without even trying, little girl.”

She blushed furiously, without a comeback.

He squeezed her hand. “You didn't see the man with the camera, did you?”

She glanced up and the look in his eyes
puzzled her. There was something like triumph there.

“I…saw the flash,” she admitted.

“It was one of the men from my personnel department. We have a company magazine,” he told her. “You know, Mary on the shirt line is keeping company with Johnny in the Cutting Room…that kind of thing. I don't doubt that picture will make its way back to your friend Pat.”

She felt all the color leave her face. “You saw the photographer coming, you did that to me deliberately….”

His eyes narrowed, glittered. “Damned straight,” he said. “It's going to be interesting to hear you talk your way out of that.”

“I'll simply tell him the truth,” she shot back. “He'll believe me.”

 

Sure enough, Pat was standing on the front steps Sunday afternoon with a brown envelope in his hand, and she knew what was in it by the look on his pale face.

She invited him into the living room, hoping against hope that Adrian wouldn't come downstairs.

Pat handed her the envelope without a word and she opened it. The picture was in glorious color. It shoved a dark, striking man with a slender blond girl in his arms, her hands gripping his powerful shoulders tightly as her lips touched his—open and pleading, her face a study in abject worship.

She closed her eyes and handed it back to him.

“Revealing, isn't it?” Pat asked quietly. “I don't have any strings on you, and I probably shouldn't be here at all. But you told me he was your boss and nothing more, and this picture makes a liar out of you. I'd just like to know the truth before we go any further together.”

She stared down into her lap at her long, graceful hands. “He's a charming man, and he knows how to use that charm to his advantage. He set me up for that photo.”

“There's nothing between you, then?” Pat asked gently.

“That,” Adrian Devereaux said from the doorway, “is a matter of opinion.”

Pat stood up quickly, his eyes taking in
the somber lines of her employer's face. “I know I'm here without permission. But I had to know,” he explained, waving the brown envelope aimlessly.

“There's a simpler way,” Adrian said. He paused to light a cigarette and pocketed his lighter, blowing out a thin cloud of smoke, eyeing Dana's apprehensive expression. “Ask her,” he challenged Pat, “if she's ever slept with me.”

Dana's face went white. Like plaster. Like sheetrock. Like a blank page.

Pat's jaw clamped harshly, his eyes hurt and contemptuous on the woman's face. “I don't have to ask her,” he growled. “It's written all over her face! Dana, you little…!”

“Say it,” Devereaux dared him, his eyes slits of brown flame, “and I'll break every bone in your body.”