Temptation's Kiss (12 page)

She sat up slowly, closing the placket on her slacks as unobtrusively as possible. “I … I didn't know I'd feel that way until …”

When her voice faded away, he said understandingly, “You don't have to justify that feeling to me or to anyone. I know there hasn't been another man since James. I'm glad. From now on I'm going to be the only man in your life.” His softly spoken words and the indulgence with which he was looking at her made her unaccountably angry.

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, Josh,” she said caustically. “I'm old-fashioned and not at all sophisticated when it comes to sex. If you wanted a playmate for afternoon romps, you brought the wrong woman, though I'm sure I can be replaced quickly enough.” She vaulted off the bed and stalked over to the dresser, opened her handbag, and took out a hairbrush. She managed to drag it through her hair several times before it was caught and wrenched from her hand.

He lay the hairbrush aside and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I like the fact that you're principled— I prefer that word to old-fashioned—when it comes to sex.”

“Only because I'm a novelty, compared to what you're used to. I don't know how to play these bedroom —games. As far as I know, James was faithful to me even when he traveled. I was faithful to him. I can't help but feel cheap and dirty and guilty about … about sleeping with someone else.”

“After three years!” he yelled, finally giving vent to his temper. “Megan, for goodness’ sake, you're not cheating on James. You're still very much alive, and you need a man to complement the woman you are.” His hands closed around her neck; his thumbs massaged her collarbone beneath the silk blouse. “You need me.”

When he touched her, she couldn't think. She had no comeback to this ridiculous argument anyway. She had thought it up only a few moments ago. What affected her more than she wanted to acknowledge was his willingness to try to understand her hesitation. Why wasn't he reacting violently to their thwarted love-making, tearing at her clothes in a lust-driven rage, making vile threats to get rough if she didn't come around?

His compassion would squelch her primary goal if she didn't fight it. Throwing off his hands, she cried out, “I loved my husband!” At least the desperation in her voice was genuine.

“I've no doubt you did,” he said with a trace of annoyance. “Anyone who knew James liked him. He was a likable, lovable guy.”

“You make him sound like a teddy bear or a puppy,” she said indignantly. “You don't hold a patent on sex appeal, you know. James was a man, and I loved him as such.”

The ticking muscle in his jaw testified to his suppressed anger. His lips barely moved when he asked, “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“But if we had had more time—if we had met a month before instead of the night before your wedding—he might never have been your husband.”

“Oh!” She clenched her fists at her sides. “You conceited, arrogant ass! One stolen kiss in the moonlight and you think I was ready to sacrifice everything for you. Well, I didn't, did I?”

“You were too stubborn then, just as you are now, to admit that you were making a mistake by marrying James after we had met.”

Her chest hurt with pent-up emotion. His words came too close to the truth, and she dug in all the deeper to defend herself. “I'd had too much champagne.”

He laughed harshly. “So now you've going to place the blame on being drunk.” His voice dropped to a deceptively soft tone. “You kissed me, Megan, and that kiss forever changed how you felt about James, or yourself for that matter. Deny it all you want—to yourself, to me, to the world. You'd like to believe that that kiss didn't mean anything to you, but it damn well did. You know it, and so do I.”

She was too enraged to speak. She stood facing him, her spine and arms rigid, her chin tilted up in defiance.

“Now, despite the rough spots that we have yet to iron out between us, I think you can see the advantages of keeping our problems to ourselves. So get your cute little rear end in that sinfully opulent bathtub and relax with a warm bath or take a cold shower and cool off your abominable temper. I'll pick you up in an hour and a half for our dinner with the Bishops, and you'd better be sparkling with good humor.”

Megan was still seething with impotent fury when he left through the terrace door.

“You fool!” she cursed herself as she heeded his unasked-for advice and stood under the pulsing cold spray of the shower. She'd had the perfect opportunity to play the frightened, insecure female and she'd blown it. She could have had him in the palm of her hand, mistakenly thinking she was his.

If only she'd played up the part about feeling guilty, needing coddling and reassurance, he would have been as malleable as putty. Instead, stubborn and volatile as she was, she had succeeded only in raising his ire.

“I've got to pay more attention to the role I'm playing,” she reminded herself as she applied her evening makeup. “Abominable temper,” she spat, flinging an eyebrow pencil onto the marble dressing table. And how had he known that the bathtub in her suite was sinfully opulent?

As she dressed she reiterated her reasons for despising him, so that they would be clear in her mind. “Submission, Megan, submission. Be feminine. Flirtatious. Unopinionated,” she muttered as she buckled the narrow strap of her sandal around her ankle.

She surveyed herself critically in the mirror. “Not bad,” she commented. Turning sideways, she sighed dispiritedly. “A little more bosom wouldn't hurt.”

She'd chosen her dress because of its sensuous fabric and unusual design. It was a subdued white crepe de chine. The dress had a draped bodice front and back, which was barely tacked together at the shoulders, leaving most of her shoulders and all of her arms bare. The front dipped low but only hinted at what lay beneath the silky cloth. The full skirt swirled around her knees.

She pulled her hair back into a bun low on the nape of her neck and all but covered it with a silk camelia with green satin leaves. Diamond studs adorned her ears.

Ready well before the appointed time, she gathered her crocheted shawl and beaded evening bag and paced nervously, rehearsing what she would say and do and wondering if, when the time came, she'd have the nerve to say and do them.

Josh knocked on the front door.

Licking her lips anxiously, she crossed the room, her knees rubbery. She kept her eyes lowered for several seconds after drawing the door toward her. Then slowly, hoping she looked provocative, she lifted her lashes and looked up at him penitently.

“You had every right to stand me up.”

She could tell by the quirking of his eloquent eyebrow that her contrition had taken him by surprise. Apparently he had thought she would still be hostile and explosive. That he looked devastatingly handsome in his dark summer-weight suit and pristine white shirt almost dissipated her anger totally.

She wet her lips again, this time deliberately. “Josh, I'm sorry about this afternoon. I—I wasn't ready for something like that to happen so soon.” That, at least, was the truth. “I didn't know how to act, what to do.”

He drew her close and pressed her head onto his chest. “Forgive me for coming on like an adolescent maniac. I bungled it, not you.”

“No. I behaved stupidly, immaturely. I thought I was ready for … it. I guess I'm not. Not yet.”

“I shouldn't have rushed you. You've barely had time to readjust your thinking about me, about us. Forgive my impatience. It's just that I've waited so long for you.”

As he spoke, his mouth wandered along her hairline. Now he tilted her face up to his. He kissed her softly, barely applying pressure to her lips, but being thoroughly intimate with his tongue, which entered the sweet hollow of her mouth. A laser of desire beamed through her body, touching each vital organ, the tips of her breasts, the center of her womanhood.

A yearning so strong that she had no choice but to obey it seized her, and her arms came around his neck. She recalled how it felt to lie with him, his body hard and demanding, hers soft and yielding. Wantonly, she rubbed against the tightness in his loins.

“My God,” he grated as at last he pulled away.“You're not making this any easier on my self-control, Megan my love. Let's go.”

The fresh evening air helped to lift the warm stain from Megan's cheeks. Her own loss of control during Josh's kiss had shocked and shamed her. She welcomed the balm of the sea breeze to clear her head and cool her fevered skin.

Their stroll through the twilight was leisurely and solitary. The pebbled walkways were lined with flowering plants. Crepe myrtle trees were just beginning to bud. The camelias were glorious.

“They look nice with your dress,” Josh remarked, indicating one of the shrubs which was loaded with blooms. “Here, wait a minute. Is anyone looking?” he asked mischievously before pinching off one of the vibrantly pink flowers.

Laughter, unaffected and natural, bubbled out of her throat at his prank. “What are you doing, Josh Bennett? Trying to get us thrown off the premises?”

“We won't be,” he said, winking. “I've got connections. Turn around.”

“Why?”

“Just turn around.”

She offered him her back and immediately felt his fingers adding the real blossom to the silk one with which she had decorated her hair. “It took me a half hour to perfect that coiffure. If you mess it up—”

“Be still,” he commanded. He tugged, adjusted, patted, then said a satisfied, “There. That looks great.” His fingers trailed lightly to the nape of her neck. “And this looks scrumptious.” He pressed a kiss onto the velvety skin.

The damp patch cooled quickly in the night air and contrasted wonderfully to another hot application of his mouth.

“Josh.” Megan sighed in spite of herself. The gentle swaying of the pine trees surrounding them was somehow sexually symbolic. The air, laden with flowery perfume, and the shadowy private path on which they stood, were a seductive setting. “Josh,” she repeated, hardly aware that she spoke his name aloud.

“Hmmm?” His lips nibbled, his tongue licked, his teeth raked lightly along her fragile skin. He tasted her like the most lascivious of gourmets indulging lewdly in a sumptuous meal. “Let's forget dinner,” he breathed from behind her. “Nothing could taste as good as you.” His tongue made tiny, quick strikes on her earlobe.

His hips settled more firmly against her back. She lifted her arms behind her head to caress his hard cheek and masculine jaw. Her fingers teased the dark hair that curled over the tops of his ears and clung to her fingers as if with a life of its own.

“Sweet … Get closer to me,” he murmured before lowering his hands to her sides. Suddenly he froze. “Good Lord,” he gasped. His fingers had encountered, not the fabric of her dress, but the warm suppleness of her skin. Barely moving his fingertips, he confirmed that he was indeed touching the sides of her breasts.

He turned her slowly to face him, and bound her eyes with his. Without releasing her from that mesmerizing stare, he slipped the fingers of both hands just beneath the sides of her dress and caressed the plump outer curves of her breasts.

“I'm liking this dress more and more,” he said thickly. Lifting one of her arms, he studied the structure of the dress, which had been designed with a man's appreciation in mind. The side was open to about two inches above the waist, leaving the tender underside of her arm and torso bare.

“I—I couldn't wear a bra with it,” she said shakily. She had worn the dress deliberately to entice him, of course, but she had not planned her own reaction to his appreciation. She'd intended for Josh to learn at some point in the evening how her dress was fashioned, but she hadn't planned on its being this early, or on his taking such keen advantage.

“I can see that,” he said on an unsteady breath. “Better than that, I can feel it.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the palm. Murmuring against it, he said, “I love the dress, but, damn it, I'll be miserable all night. I'll want to kill any man I see glancing in your direction.”

With a possessive arm around her shoulders and a proprietary air, he escorted her the rest of the way to the main compound. They were to meet the Bishops in the most elite of Seascape's four restaurants. Terry had wisely provided eateries to suit any taste or budget, from hamburgers to Continental cuisine.

The latter restaurant was located on the second floor and provided a breathtaking view of the Atlantic at dusk. Black lacquered tables were covered with starched white cloths. The chairs were upholstered in either royal blue or burgundy velour. Crystal shimmered in the candlelight; silver place settings sparkled; a sedate sextet played soft music from a small dais rising from a parqueted dance floor.

As they entered through etched glass doors, Terry rushed forward to greet them. “Megan, you look beautiful. Josh, how do you like it? Are your rooms sufficient? Are you having a good time?”

Megan and Josh glanced at each other and burst out laughing at Terry's nervous enthusiasm. “Yes, we love Seascape. Yes, the rooms are superlative,” Josh assured him.

“And yes, we're having a good time,” Megan contributed. “But we're hungry,” she teased.

He smiled shyly. “I know I'm being ridiculous. Gayla told me as much. She says if I don't calm down she's going to lock me in our room. Come on, she's anxious to meet you.”

Gayla Bishop was as contentedly calm as her husband was harried. Perhaps her serenity had been acquired after having borne four children, Megan speculated. She would never have survived otherwise, if all the stories with which she regaled Megan were true. The plumpish woman seemed not in the least affected by the size of her bank account and looked upon Seascape as only one of her husband's many outstanding achievements. That they adored each other was obvious as they all chatted amiably and sipped drinks.

When Josh had automatically ordered Megan white wine on the rocks, she had smiled at him privately. Without the least bit of self-consciousness, he covered her hand with his and gently stroked her fingers, even as he conversed with Terry about Seascape's three golf courses.

“I was even more anxious to meet you when I heard you were coming here with Josh,” Gayla Bishop told Megan frankly. She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “He's so damned good-looking. Of course I love my Terry to death, but I'm not blind or dead!” She laughed lightly.