Strange Bedfellow (8 page)

Her senses took over, reigning supreme. She gloried in the taste of his lips probing the sensual hollows of her mouth and the brush of the soft, curling hairs on his chest hardening her nipples into erotic pebbles.
 

The rapidly increasing throb of her pulse was in tempo with the pagan beat of his, building to a climax. And the heady male scent of him, heightened by perspiration and his rising body heat, served to stimulate all her senses until she was filled with nothing but him.
 

For a time she glimpsed heights she had thought she would never see again. Blake sought all the places that brought her the most pleasure, waiting until she moaned his name in final surrender.
 

Chapter Four

DINA LAY IN BED, the covers pulled up to her neck, but she knew the blankets couldn't warm the chill. Her passion spent, she felt cold and empty inside as she stared upward into the darkness of the room. A tear was frozen on an eyelash.
 

Physically her desires had been satisfied by Blake's skilled knowledge, but she had not been lifted to the rapturous heights of a spiritual union. That only happened when there was love involved. Tonight it had been merely a mutual satisfaction of sexual desires. And that special something that had been missing eliminated the warm afterglow Dina had previously known.
 

Blake was beside her, their bodies not touching. An arm was flung on the pillow above his head. She could hear the steady sound of his breathing, but doubted that he was asleep. Her sideways glance sought his carved profile in the dim light. There seemed to be a grim line to his mouth, as if he was experiencing the same reaction.
 

As if feeling her look and hearing her question, he said in a low, flat voice, “There's one argument you didn't make, Dina. If you had, it might have prevented this disillusionment.”
 

“What is it?” she asked in a tight, throbbing voice, longing to know what it was so she could keep this from happening again.
 

“The real thing can't match two and a half years of expectations.”
 

No,
she agreed silently,
not when there are no words of love exchanged no mating of our hearts nor coming together of our souls.
It had been an act of lust, born out of anger and frustration.
 

“Passion never can, Blake,” she murmured.
 

He tossed aside the blanket draped across his waist and swung his feet to the floor. Her head turned on the pillow to stare at him in the darkness.
 

“Where are you going?” she asked softly. Something told her that if Blake would hold her in his arms, the aching void inside her might close.
 

There was a faint sheen to his sun-browned skin in the shadowy light. She could make out the breadth of his shoulders and the back muscles tapering to his waist. His steps were soundless, silent animal strides.
 

“Another unfortunate discovery I've made since returning to civilization is that the mattresses are too soft.” He spoke in a low voice, a biting, cynical tone. “I'm used to firm beds. That's what comes from spending too many nights sleeping in trees and on hard ground.”
 

She lost him in the darkness and propped herself up on an elbow, keeping the covers tightly around her. “Where are you going?”
 

“To find a spare blanket and a hard floor.” There was the click of the door being opened. “You have part of your wish, Dina,” he added caustically. “The bed is yours. You can sleep alone.”
 

As the door closed, a convulsive shudder ran through her. She turned her face into the pillow, curling her body into a tight ball of pain. With eyes squeezed shut, she lay there, aching for the forgetfulness of sleep.
 

A HAND GENTLY but persistently shook her shoulder. “Mrs. Blake? Wake up, please.” Dina stirred, lashes fluttering as she tried to figure out whether or not she was imagining the voice. “Wake up, Mrs. Blake!”
 

But she wasn't imagining the hand on her arm. Her head throbbed dully as she opened her eyes and rolled over, dragging the covers with her. Her sleepy gaze focused on the agitated expression of the housekeeper hovering above her.
 

Dina became conscious of several things at once: the rumpled pillow beside her where Blake had lain so briefly, her own naked state beneath the covers, and the clothes scattered around the room—hers and Blake's.
My God, the room is a mess,
she thought.
 

“What is it, Deirdre?” she questioned, trying to maintain a measure of composure despite the surge of embarrassment.
 

The older woman bit her lip as if uncertain how to reply. “It's Mr. Blake.”
 

The anxious look on the housekeeper's face brought an instant reaction as Dina propped herself up on her elbows, concern chasing away the remnants of sleep. “Blake? What's wrong? Has something happened to him?”
 

“No, it's ... it's just that he's sleeping downstairs—on the floor in the library.” A dull red was creeping up her neck into her cheeks. “And he isn't wearing any ... any pajamas.”
 

Dina swallowed back a smile, her relief lost in amusement. Poor Deirdre Schneider, she thought, never married in her life nor seriously close to it and probably shocked to her prim core when she found Blake sleeping in the library in the altogether.
 

“I see,” she nodded, and tried to keep her face straight.
 

“Mr. Stanton will be arriving in just more than an hour.” The woman was trying desperately to avoid looking at the bareness of Dina's shoulders. “I thought you should be the one to ... to wake up Mr. Blake.”
 

“I will,” said Dina, and started to rise, then decided against adding to the housekeeper's embarrassment. “Would you hand me my robe at the foot of the bed, Deirdre?”
 

After handing the robe to her, the housekeeper turned discreetly away while Dina slipped into it. “Mrs. Chandler had a few things sent over yesterday for Mr. Blake,” she informed Dina. “There are pajamas and a robe. I put them in the empty closet.”
 

“I'll take them to him.” Dina finished tying the sash of her robe. “And, Deirdre, tomorrow I think you'd better make arrangements with Mrs. Chandler to purchase a bed with a very firm mattress, one that's as hard as a rock.”
 

“I will,” Deirdre promised as if taking an oath. “Sorry to have awakened you, Mrs. Blake.”
 

“That's quite all right, Deirdre,” Dina answered, smiling.
 

With a brief self-conscious nod, the housekeeper left the room. Dina put on her slippers and walked to the small closet Deirdre had indicated. It was used mostly for storage. Amid the few boxes and garment bags hung three shirts and a brown suit. On the two inside door hooks were the pajamas and matching dressing robe in a muted shade of cranberry silk. Leaving the pajamas, Dina took the robe.
 

Downstairs, her hand hesitated on the knob of the library door. Tension hammered in her temples and her stomach was twisted into knots. Steeling herself to ignore the attack of nervousness, she opened the door quietly and walked in. Her gaze was directed first to the floor and its open area around the fireplace.
 

“Deirdre sent in the reserves, I see,” Blake's male voice mocked from the side of the room.
 

Dina turned in its direction and saw him standing near the solid wall of shelves filled with books. A dark green blanket was wrapped around his waist, his naked torso gleaming in that deep shade of tan. Fingers had combed his thick brown hair into a semblance of order, a suggestion of unruliness remaining. Dina's pulse fluctuated in alarm, her head lifted as if scenting danger. He looked like a primitive native, proud, noble and savage.
 

“Did you hear her come in?” She realized it was a foolish question after she had asked it. Those long months in the jungle had to have sharpened his senses, making them more acute.
 

“Yes, but I decided it was wiser to pretend I was still asleep rather than shock her sensibilities,” he admitted with cynical derision. “I thought she would scamper up the stairs to inform you or my mother of my lewd behavior.”
 

Behind his veiled look Dina felt the dark intensity of his gaze scanning her face—searching for something, but she didn't know what. It made her uncomfortable and she wished she had dressed before coming down.
 

“I brought you a robe.” She held it out to him aware of the faint trembling that wasn't yet visible.
 

“No doubt at Deirdre's suggestion. She must have been more shocked than I thought.” But Blake made no move toward it, forcing Dina to walk to him.
 

“Deirdre isn't accustomed to finding naked men sleeping on the library floor,” she said, defending the housekeeper's reaction and discovering a similar one in herself as Blake reached down to unwrap the blanket from around his waist. Self-consciously she averted her eyes, her color mounting as if it were a stranger undressing in front of her instead of her husband.
 

There was a rustle of silk, then, “It's safe to look now,” Blake taunted, his mouth curving in ungentle mockery.
 

She flashed him an angry look for drawing attention to her sudden burst of modesty and turned away. The vein in her neck pulsed with a nervousness that she wasn't able to control. His hand touched her shoulder and she flinched from the searing contact.
 

“For God's sake, Dina, I'm not going to rape you!” he cursed beneath his breath. “Dammit, can't I even touch my wife?”
 

Her blue eyes were wide and wary as she looked over her shoulder at his fiercely burning gaze. “I don't feel like your wife, Blake,” she said tightly. “I don't feel as if I'm married to you.”
 

Immediately the fires were banked in his eyes, that freezing control that was so unlike him coming into play. “You are married to me,” he stated, and walked by her to the door. Opening it, he called, “Deirdre! Bring some coffee into the library for my wife and myself.” With emphasis on “wife.”
 

“Chet is coming and I still have to dress.” Dina reminded him, objecting to spending more minutes alone with him.
 

“He isn't due for an hour,” Blake said, dismissing her protest, and walked to the leather-covered sofa, pausing beside its end table to lift the lid of the ceramic cigarette box. “Cigarette?” He flicked a questioning glance in her direction.
 

“No, I don't smoke. Remember?” she said with a faintly taunting arch to her voice.
 

“You might have acquired the habit during my absence,” he shrugged.
 

“I didn't.”
 

Brisk footsteps in the foyer signaled the housekeeper's approach. Seconds later she entered the library with a coffee service and two china cups on the tray she carried. A pink tint was still rouging her cheeks as Deirdre steadfastly avoided looking directly at Blake.
 

“Where would you like the tray?” she asked Dina.
 

“The table by the sofa will be fine.”
 

Blake carried the ceramic table lighter to the cigarette in his mouth and snapped the flame to its tip. Smoke spiraled upward and he squinted his eyes against it. Despite his show of disinterest, Dina knew he was aware of the housekeeper's every movement. After setting the tray on the table at the opposite end of the sofa from where Blake stood, Deirdre straightened up erectly.
 

“Will there be anything else?” Again her query was directed to Dina.
 

It was Blake who answered. “That will be all,” he said, exhaling a thin trail of smoke. “And close the door on your way out, Deirdre.”
 

“Yes, sir.” Two red flags dotted her cheeks.
 

As Deirdre made a hasty exit, firmly closing the door, Blake walked to the tray. Lifting the coffee pot, he filled the two cups and offered one to Dina.
 

“Black, as I remember, with no sugar,” he said in a tone that baited.
 

“Yes, thank you.” Dina refused to bite as she took the cup and saucer from his hand.
 

Scalding steam rose from the brown liquid and Blake let his cup sit. He studied the glowing tip of his cigarette and the gossamer-thin white smoke rising upward. A wry smile crooked his mouth.
 

“I'd forgotten how good a cigarette can taste first thing in the morning,” he mused.
 

Dina felt as edgy as a cat with its tail caught in a vise. She couldn't help retorting, “I thought you hadn't forgotten anything.”
 

“Not the important things, I haven't,” Blake replied, levelly meeting her irritated glance.
 

With a broken sigh, she wandered to the library window overlooking the expansive front lawn of the house and the cul-de-sac of its driveway. She was caught by the memory of the last time she had stared out the window in troubled silence. Oddly, it seemed an eternity ago instead of the short time that it was.