The Promise (13 page)

The pleasure was excruciatingly intense, and she cried out. Threading her fingers into his hair, she pushed her head back against a cushion. Unable to control the need building in her, she went with it, giving herself up to the throbbing, the aching, the passion. She arched her hips up to his and felt a hardness that sent electricity sparking through her.

His mouth came down on hers, and his hand delved beneath the layers of chiffon to the silky smoothness of her legs. His tongue tangled with hers, his mind hazed over. Raw need gripped his body. He hadn’t meant their tennis game to end like this. He certainly hadn’t brought her to the court to make love to her. Had he? No.

He had vowed not to rush her. And he wouldn’t. He
had
to
cease this madness soon. And he would..

His fingers thrust between her thighs to her warmth and softness.

Inflamed, she twisted violently beneath him, then her hips began to move in rhythm to his caresses. It was wonderful, but she’d been empty for so long. She craved his maleness, his power. She pulled on his hair until he lifted his head and gazed down at her.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked thickly, unable to mask either his desire or his confusion. Then because he hoped it might put him back in the game-playing mood, he added, “Are you ready to say you’re sorry?" It didn’t work. He was burning for her.

“No, but I’m ready to say I want you. I
want
you, Conall. More than I can say, more than I can bear. Make love to me."

A hard shudder convulsed his body. “Well go back to the suite.”

“No! Here! Now!" She arched up to him again. “Oh, please, Conall.”

The urgency and naked need in her voice galvanized him. Pushed nearly beyond endurance, he yanked her panties free of her legs and entered her with a force that fused them together. Ecstasy closed around Conall, narrowing his world to Sharon and the overwhelming intensity of the sensations that crashed through him again and again. Her legs fastened around him; his hips lifted and fell in a hard, fast rhythm.

He was no longer thinking. Something dark and primal had taken over, driving him. He was half mad, wanting her, needing her,
having
her. He thrust deeper into her, and suddenly they were straining together as her climax started, then his. He groaned, she cried out. It continued on and on, seeming to grow more powerful, more rapturous, until at last he emptied into her. And she was filled.

Sharon shifted. Her bare legs slid across silk and encountered something immovable. Slowly she opened her eyes.
Conall.
His face was only inches from hers.

She remembered now. They had waited for the trembling of their muscles to abate, then somehow dressed and walked back to the house, arm in arm. And when they had reached the suite, she had gone with him to his bedroom, where they had made love again just as frantically and just as hungrily as they had at the tennis court.

She lifted her head and gazed around the room. Her turquoise gown lay in a frothy pool on the floor next to his dark evening clothes. She lowered her head gently back to the pillow so as not to wake him, and she stared at the ceiling, experiencing a feeling of absolute surprise.

She was lying in the massive sleigh bed with him beneath the royal purple spread.

They had actually made love.

And it had been the greatest, most joyous experience she had ever had.

And not once during that time had she thought about trying to get pregnant.

Instead, she had been consumed by him, what he was doing to her, what she was doing to him, and how they were making each other feel.

Making love on a couch in an indoor tennis court where the light was pearlized and a stained glass roof curved above them hadn’t been in her plans. She had envisioned a perfunctory act of sex, followed by twenty minutes of her lying with her bottom elevated on a pillow. Making love a second time so soon after the first time hadn’t been in the program either. Every other day was best, she had read, to give the sperm a chance to build up and then be released in larger numbers. She seemed to remember that hot baths were out for the man, too, and Conall had had one right before dinner. Oh, well, they would just have to do better next time. They would wait a day, be more practical about their surroundings.

For some inexplicable reason she giggled and turned her head along the pillow to look at Conall.

His eyes were open. “I really like the way you laugh,” he murmured huskily.

"I suppose laughing
is
a major talent.”

“You mean sort of like your talent to win at tennis?” He slipped his arm beneath her back and pulled her up and over until she lay on top of him.

Her hair tumbled forward, and the soft golden-brown curls brushed against his chest and face.

She tucked one side behind her ear so that she could see him better. “What can I say? I’m just a very talented person.”

“I would have to agree with that.” He raised his head to kiss her lightly, briefly. “Although,” he continued when his head was once again on the pillow, “our discussion regarding a rematch is not over.”

“I’ll look forward to our next talk on the subject,” she said solemnly. “Almost as much as I’m looking forward to breakfast."

“You’re hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Funny, I am too. Why don’t we order room service? What would you like?”

She chewed on her bottom lip a moment, thinking. “Do you have any idea what kind of champagne they have here? For instance, do you think they’d have something really old and rare?” 

“There should be some Roederer Cristal 1945.” He smoothed his hand down her bare back with absentminded possessiveness. “Would you like me to order it? Perhaps with some peaches?”

 "Peaches?” She grinned. “Heavens no. I don’t want to
drink
it. I want them to make us some champagne jelly from it. If they do it right away, we could have it for breakfast tomorrow.”

He closed his eyes on a groan. “The wine steward is going to resign.”

She used the pads of her thumbs to gently pry his lids up. “You don’t think they’ll do it?”

He blinked her thumbs away and glared at her. “I suppose you want to bet.”

“I'm a businesswoman.”

He sighed. “How much?”

“Four dollars. You’ve already given me two dollars for the raspberries. If we get the de-eyed black-eyed peas today for lunch, you'll owe me three dollars, and with the four dollars I’m sure to win for the jelly, that will be—”

He put his hand over her mouth. “Okay, on one condition. You place the order. Now, let’s decide what we want for breakfast
this
morning.”

She rolled off him and onto her back, then stretched, luxuriating in how comfortable and at ease she was with him. She had been briefly afraid that she might feel stiff and awkward with him after last night, but that was not the case at all. “Conall? Is that painting of the sea and the nude valuable?”

“Very.”

“Oh.” She paused. "Well, are you very attached to it?”

He came up on an elbow and gazed down at her. “Why? Are you going to ask the staff to decoupage it?”

She playfully swatted at his chest. “No. I was only wondering if we could replace it with a nice landscape. Something a little less . . . oppressively erotic.”

“Do you have something against oppressively erotic?”

“On the whole, I’m very pro-erotic. It’s the oppressive part that I’m not certain of.”

“Say no more. I'll have Winston switch the painting. ”

“Thank you. Now, there’s one more thing.”

He groaned. “Is this going to be another bet? Because if it is, you should know that I’ve just about committed the extent of my cash reserves to you.”

She skimmed a finger back and forth over his bottom lip. “No, it’s not another bet. But in the future and as a personal favor to you, I will try to keep your financial crisis in mind. However, for now, do you think we could skip breakfast? I’d much rather make love.”

“You know, Sharon, you’re a little strange, but you’re growing on me. ” He gathered her close and he bent to kiss her.

Seven

Leather creaked as Sharon turned in the saddle to glance back the way she and Conall had just ridden. She hadn’t been able to see the house for quite some time and couldn’t judge how far they had come. ‘‘Are we still on SwanSea land?” “Definitely,” Conall said, riding beside her. “When are you going to tell me where we’re going? Or why we're going there?"

“When we get there.”

“There
where
? Conall Deverell, you’re driving me crazy.”

He looked across at her and grinned. “What’s the problem? You liked last night’s surprise, didn’t you? The tennis court?”

In another life she would have blushed at the intimate look he sent her. Now she smiled. “Of course I remember.”

His grin broadened. “Yeah, well, I remember too. And I guarantee that you’re going to like this place. Besides, what difference does it make where I’m taking you? You’re not in Boston. You’re not on a timetable. There’s nothing you have to do, nowhere you have to be. Relax.”

She was relaxed, she thought, and at the moment, almost Indecently content. On her right, white-tipped waves rolled, one after the other, into the shore. To her left, purple and white asters, sky-blue gentians, and cardinal flowers grew wild in green meadows. Beyond the meadows, sugar maples displayed outrageously brilliant colors of red, orange, and gold. With nature's beauty to gaze at and Conall by her side, how could she complain?

“We’re going to take the path up ahead and ride down to the beach,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. “Pull in behind me and follow. It’s an easy descent. Just go slow.”

She nodded, doing as he said, and soon found herself guiding her horse onto the sand.

The tide had gone out, leaving a wide stretch of beach on which they could ride. Gulls swooped and dived, then chose a wind current, banked, and flew back out to sea. The sun coiled through the weave of her sweater to warm her skin. The breeze tossed more curl into her hair.

She laughed with delight. “It’s been years since I’ve been on a beach. This is wonderful.”

A wide smile split his face. “Winter, summer, spring, or fall, if I’m at SwanSea, I have to come down here. There’s nothing like the enormity, the energy, the vast sweep of the ocean to put things into perspective for me.”

She could understand his need for the solitude of the beach. She had seen for herself how weary he had been that first night he had arrived. The weight of responsibility on his shoulders was enormous. Uniquely qualified and able to carry that load of responsibility, he also needed times of rest and comfort.

They rode a short distance, then with a glance over his shoulder to make sure she was with him.

he reined his horse around an outjutting of the cliff and onto a deep but shorter stretch of beach.

When she followed, she saw a shallow recess hollowed into the side of the cliff and, spread there, a large blanket with wicker baskets sitting on it.

“A picnic?” she asked, amazed. “How did you manage it?”

He eased back on the reins, pulled his horse to a stop, and dismounted.
“You’re
asking that? You with your undying faith in the staff?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re right. I don’t know how to explain it, except I obviously lost my mind there for a minute. I’m sure we even have a container of de-eyed black-eyed peas over there. What do you want to bet?”

“Three dollars. How could you forget?” He held up his arms for her and swung her to the ground.

Hand in hand they crossed the sand together. She dropped down onto the big, soft blanket and began to unpack one of the wicker baskets. Not too far away, driftwood was neatly stacked for a fire. Conall knelt to light it and waited a minute to make sure it had caught.

“We have china, we have silver, we have crystal, we have linen napkins,” she said as he walked back to her, then continued to recite everything she had found in the wicker baskets. She finished with, “And last but not least, we have a container of something steaming hot that looks like taupe-colored library paste."

He peered into the container. “The black-eyed peas?”

She nodded.
“Sans
black eyes. You know. I’m beginning to feel guilty. I don’t think I can make any more of these requests of the staff.”

“Oh, come on. They’re enjoying it.
They
are making bets on what you'll ask for next. You’re the only person who’s ever given them any kind of real challenge.”

“No, no, I just can’t. They’re all so sweet and willing to please. And by the way, you owe me three dollars.”

“Hey! How about giving me some slack. You’ve never met anyone sweeter or more willing to please than me.”

“Three dollars, Conall.”

“But what about the critical condition of my cash reserves?”

“Three dollars, Conall.”

Glaring at her, he dug into his jeans for his wallet, pulled out three dollars, and handed them to her. Then he leapt on her, knocking her over backward, and smacked kisses all over her face and throat while he tickled her. Tears of laughter were running down her cheeks, and she was gasping for breath when he finally stopped. He sat up and pulled her upright beside him.

She wiped the tears of mirth from her cheeks and fixed him with an equally glaring stare. “You really are a sore loser, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. "I’ve always had a difficult time dealing with the concept of losing.”

“You know something else about you?” she asked, pointing a finger at him with narrowed eyes. “It’s very interesting the way you use kisses as punishment. I feel strongly that it all stems from your warped childhood.”

“Warped? Excuse me?”

“You were never punished, so you don’t know what real punishment is. Poor kid.” She glanced at the banquet spread out before them. “Are we hungry yet?”

He laughed and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Yes, I think we are, especially since we seem to have missed breakfast.”

They ate in companionable silence. Afterward, they took a long walk. When they returned, Conall added wood to the fire, and they dropped back down onto the blanket.