A Secret Life (12 page)

She couldn’t let him get away with this. She was nobody’s sex toy—no matter how rawly sensual he appeared. No matter how many erotic dreams he had spawned. And no matter how curious she’d become.

She opened her mouth to tell him so, but he moved in even closer.

His face was mere inches from hers, and she inhaled his woodsy scent. No designer cologne for this man. Her nose twitched at the unfamiliar sensation of real sweat and unadulterated pheromones.

His thumb stroked her cheek, and his lips brushed hers ever so gently. It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t anything, really.

“Only one night,” he sighed. “Such a shame.”

She was still wearing a pair of fleece shorts and a thin tank top after the heat of the day. A breeze wafted through the window screens and sensitized her bare skin. The scent of hydrangeas filled the air, but the scent of Samuel was stronger.

He brushed a first kiss across her lips, and she thought her legs might give way. “My place,” he whispered.

“I can’t do that.” But she was kissing him back, brushing the tips of her breasts against his chest.

His fingers settled at her waist, finding a thin strip of skin between the elastic of her shorts and the hem of her tank top. “Sure you can.” He held back enough to keep the kisses gentle, nearly driving her mad.

“I don’t even know you.”

His hand crept slowly beneath her shirt. “So what?”

It grazed the underside of her bare breast, and she sucked in a breath. “You could be…”

He flicked his thumb across her nipple. “Dangerous?”

“Yes,” she hissed, arching her spine.

“Oh, I’m definitely dangerous.” He did it again, and fiery sparks shot the length of her body, leaving a pulsing glow behind them. “And I’m going to have you.” He kissed her properly this time. Finally.

His lips overwhelmed hers, plenty of pressure and just the right suction. His tongue curled in, and she opened wide for him, arousal saturating her body.

Then he drew back too soon, the pad of his thumb now circling her hard, sensitized nipple. His eyes were black, shimmering with knowledge. “It’s just a matter of where.”

She wanted to argue with him.
Nobody
talked to her that way. Men treated her with respect and deference.

Trouble was, he wasn’t only dangerous, he was right. Another five minutes, and they’d be making love on the kitchen floor. Even with her fading rational thought, she knew Samuel’s place was a much better choice.

But she couldn’t let him have it all his way. She settled her hands on his shoulders, leaned forward from her kneeling position and kissed him this time. Another proper kiss. Another lingering, deep, moist, mobile kiss.

“And if I say yes?”

She felt him smile.

“Have I said anything to indicate you have a choice?”

“I don’t think I like where this is leading.”

His fingertips feathered up the inside of her bare thigh. Her knees widened reflexively on the cushioned seat.

“Oh, yes, you do.” He passed the hem of her loose shorts.

Her hands gripped his shoulders as she lost track of the conversation. She expected him to stop, but his fingers kept on going, past her shorts, past her panties, to slip inside, until he was buried, all but lifting her from the seat.

“My place,” he said.

She didn’t answer, but then it wasn’t really a question.

He kissed her one more time, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her to his truck. She spared a brief thought for what Joan, Anthony or Luc might think, but Samuel’s strong arms, erotic scent and whispered demands blotted out the rest of the world.

On the short drive to his place, she watched his profile in fascination. He was a gorgeous man. There was a strength to his features, a wildness that reminded her of the pioneers and conquerors of the dense Louisiana bush. His ancestors hadn’t had an easy time of it. But then neither had Samuel.

Perhaps his strength was part lineage, part experience. Whatever it was, it was all sexy, and their midnight tryst had the feel of inevitability.

Then, without warning, Samuel hit the brakes. “Shit!”

Heather glanced frantically out the windshield, her hand shooting out to brace against the dashboard. “What?”

“There’s a light.”

“A what?”

“In my house.” He killed the truck lights, shut off the engine and brought it to a smooth halt.

“Maybe you left it on.” She peered at the front of his white cottage. It was prettier and more feminine than she’d imagined.

“I didn’t leave it on.” There was absolutely no uncertainty in his tone. “You wait here.”

Could it be another burglary? Another fan? Another souvenir seeker? “You should call the police.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Samuel.” She didn’t want him going into that house. Something was strange in all this, and her instincts hummed.

But he opened his door and stepped out quickly, pushing it shut so that the dome light went off.

He started down the driveway, and Heather sat forward, holding her breath in the darkness. Samuel was a big man, she told herself. He was strong, and he was capable. He’d easily be a match for whoever was in the house. And maybe then they could put an end to all this.

Not that it mattered to her. She and Joan were going to Paris in the morning. But Samuel would still be here. She felt a little funny about that, but she didn’t know why.

Samuel was halfway down the walk when the front door burst open. He broke into a run, but then a gunshot cracked the night air, an orange flash shooting out from the porch.

Heather screamed, and Samuel went down.

The shadowy figure vaulted the railing and took off, running through the neighboring yards.

Heather raced to Samuel, screaming his name.

She dropped down on the grass beside him. “Samuel?”

He moaned, and she could see a blood stain spreading from his shoulder down across his chest.

“Cell phone,” she cried, knowing she’d left hers at Luc’s.

“Pocket,” he panted, and she searched the front of his pants.

“Don’t you die on me,” she pleaded, as she fumbled to retrieve the phone. But she heard a siren in the distance. Obviously the neighbors had called the police.

Thank God.

She leaned over Samuel, grabbing his hand and holding it tightly between both of hers. “Please, don’t die.” Her voice cracked. “Just don’t die.”

He didn’t answer.

She smoothed his hair back and he grimaced in pain. “Live,” she pleaded. “I’ll do anything you want. Any position, any kinky perverted thing you can dream up. I promise.”

His chest heaved up and down, and she feared it was his last breath. “You’re—” he rasped.

She leaned closer, holding his hand against her breasts, fear coursing though her body. “What?”

“You’re…going to be…sorry.”

“Why?”

“I’m…not…dying.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

J
OAN KNEW
she had to apologize to Anthony. She’d put it off all day, vacillating between anger at his attitude and regret over her own thoughtless words. She’d rather not face him, but she was leaving for Paris in less than twelve hours, and there was no way she could let their relationship end on such a vicious note.

Near midnight, she screwed up her courage and padded down the staircase to the second floor. Anthony’s was the room closest to the stairs, next to Heather’s closed door.

Joan rapped softly.

“Yeah?” came the gruff reply.

She swallowed. “Anthony?”

There was a silent pause, and she feared he was going to send her away.

“Come in,” he finally said.

She slowly pushed open the door. He was propped up in bed, bare-chested, the pages of a manuscript piled on the covers around him.

“Hi,” she muttered, and slipped inside.

“Everything okay?” he asked in a cool, professional voice.

She nodded. Then she shook her head. “No, it’s not. I am
so
sorry.”

He shrugged, but even in the dim light from the bedside lamp, she could see the distance in his eyes.

“Anthony.”

He looked back down at the page. “Don’t worry about it.”

She took a few steps forward. “But I
am
worried about it. I insulted you, and I insulted your family.”

He looked up sharply. “You think
that’s
why I’m mad?”

She faltered, confused. “Yeah…”

“I’m mad because you slammed yourself.”

She blinked at him.

“Do you honestly think only ‘trailer trash’ read your books?”

She didn’t have an answer for that one. “I…”

He flipped back the covers, and she tensed, afraid he might be naked. But he was wearing boxers.

“They have you brainwashed,” he said, coming toward her.

“I can’t do this right now,” she protested, her throat thickening. She’d come here to apologize, not to fight. She was heartsick at leaving him and heartsick at leaving her career, truth be told. More than at any other time in her life, she needed Anthony’s shoulders to lean on.

He took in her expression, and the chill left his eyes. He moved forward and gently pulled her into his arms. “It’s going to be okay.”

Her chest tightened, and she hiccupped, unable to speak.

“Don’t worry,” he said, rocking her back and forth.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled against him. She was sorry for insulting his family, sorry she couldn’t be what he wanted her to be, sorry she was leaving him.

She looked up into his eyes, memorizing their intelligence, their sympathy, their passion.

He lifted a hand and brushed her hair back from her temple, sending a familiar wave of desire through her body.

She wouldn’t ask. Couldn’t ask. After being turned down, a woman didn’t beg twice. She had some pride.

The seconds ticked by, and her body molded itself more tightly against his. His scent teased her, and the texture of his fingertips burned into her skin. Her core temperature rose, and her hormones swirled to life until the world contracted to the two of them.

But she wouldn’t ask. She…would…not…ask.

“Please?” the whisper slipped from her. “Oh, Anthony, please.”

H
ER WORDS
raked over Anthony’s soul. Powerless to resist, he swooped down to kiss her mouth. She was delicious, gorgeous in her sleep-disheveled state—an arousing, erotic goddess.

The kiss went on and on. Her lips parted and her tongue met his, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as his hands roamed up her back, slipping over the thin silk of her robe.

“I’ve missed you,” he groaned.

He didn’t ever want to experience her anger or her distance again. If she was going to Paris, so be it. He would take her as Joan Bateman, as Jules Burrell, or as anyone else she wanted to be. If he had to fly to Paris to see her, he’d fly to Paris to see her.

They finally broke the kiss, and she gazed up at him, her round, emerald eyes shinning in the lamplight. “I could come back.”

He shook his head sadly. He knew deep down that this was the end. Her family was too powerful, they had too much influence over her. “You won’t come back anytime soon.”

She didn’t deny it.

“I shouldn’t have walked away last night,” he told her. “I should have dragged you into that bed and made love to you until neither of us could see straight.”

She paused, her voice soft. “And now?”

He smiled at her hesitance. He wasn’t feeling the least bit unsure. “I like to think I learn from my mistakes.”

She smiled, reaching for her robe. “Good.”

He followed the movements of her delicate fingers as they worked their way through the knot in her sash. The temperature in the room spiked, and her perfume, her delectable, familiar perfume, wrapped around him in a wave.

He reached for the free ends of her sash and drew her against him. Her hair was loose, and he kissed it tenderly, inhaling deep, mouthing the softness. Then he kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, and worked his way back to her lips.

With a moan of surrender, she twined her arms around his neck. Her body came flush against his, and all the sensations from the night before rushed back. She was soft where a woman should be soft, narrow where a woman should be narrow. Her hair was fragrant, her skin smooth as warm silk, and deep in her eyes he could see peace and paradise.

He lifted her from the floor, continuing with a kiss that felt bittersweet. It was Joan, finally, and he was losing her in the morning.

The satin of her nightgown slipped against his bare chest. He drew her head into the crook of his shoulder, stroking her soft hair. “I need you,” he whispered honestly, rocking her against his body.

“I need you, too,” she confessed, and the world started to spiral out of control.

He took the last few steps to his big bed. There he placed her gently on the sheets, following her down to lie beside her.

Her lacy, satin V-neck revealed the mounds of her creamy breasts. He traced the line of lace and felt her tremble beneath his fingers. Then he dipped beneath the fabric, and she sucked in a breath.

He propped himself up with his elbow. “I’ve dreamed of you,” he told her, staring into eyes that had gone opaque with her arousal. “For years and years, I’ve dreamed of having you in my arms.”

A shy smile curved her lips. “I never thought you noticed me.”

He chuckled. “Noticed? It’s been a struggle to keep my hands off you. Every time we get together, I lecture myself on appropriate behavior.”

“You don’t say?” she mumbled, burying her face into his bare shoulder.

“I do say.”

She pulled back, and her smile turned coquettish as she dropped one strap of her nightgown.

His gaze feasted on her soft shoulders and her creamy cleavage.

Her eyes turned from jade to smoke as she dropped the other strap. Then she pulled one end of the bow holding her bodice together.

He covered her hand with his. “Let me.”

She released the tie, and he slowly drew out the satin strip. The bow melted to nothing, and he loosened the final knot. The ties slipped through the eyelets as he eased the silky fabric apart, revealing her breasts, the smooth curve of her stomach and the dusky triangle at the apex of her legs.