Children of Dynasty (12 page)

Their kiss deepened, escalating from exploration to his tongue seeking hers with bold authority. He snugged her closer and let her feel what she was doing to arouse him. Joy surged while the melting warmth in her expanded. Wicked images warred with propriety; he would make love to her here in the dark woods, up against the wooden rail … someone could walk down the path at any moment.

Rory kissed the side of her neck then moved his lips to the hollow at the base of her throat. Her head tipped back, and she gasped at the pleasure needles shooting hot and cold through her.

“Admit it, Mariah,” he whispered. “There’s never been anybody who did it for us like each other.”

The last of her reservations fell away like water tumbling to the pool below. There was no telling where they would end up, but she would seize this moment, this now.

The thin high tone of a cell phone made them jerk apart.

“Dammit!” Rory reached to his belt and unclipped the small device.

Another tinny ring sounded out of place in the deep forest.

What would be his answer to the real world’s summons? Did Sylvia Chatsworth wonder why he was late coming over? Had his father discovered through some clairvoyant sense that his son was AWOL?

On the third ring, Rory flipped the phone off the bridge. With a gulping splash, it sank into the dark pool.

When they arrived at their secluded bungalow, housekeeping had prepared a love nest. In the entry floored with black granite, spiky ginger and bird of paradise graced a crystal vase. On the granite bar top, an iced bottle of champagne rested beside a brandy bottle with appropriate balloon glasses. Chocolate and assorted cheeses promised to satisfy a late night appetite.

Rory went to the hearth and put a match to the prelaid fire. Then he reached for the bag containing the mystery purchase he’d made in Carmel. “I hope you like it.”

In the top of the sack, Mariah saw black velvet. Smooth and plush in her hand, the floor-length robe unfolded as she drew it out. “It’s fabulous.” Opening the sash, she uncovered the lining of crimson silk.

He grinned. “Sedate, but with a bit of wickedness beneath.”

True to the spirit of being wicked, she took the robe with her into the bath. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she found a woman transformed. Her eyes appeared huge, soft. Golden hair spilled over her shoulders, making her look like the younger woman who had gazed into the glass in the master head aboard
Privateer,
the last time she and Rory were together like this. The night Davis had discovered their secret, she’d brought along a silky robe from home. Brushed her hair and gone out to find Rory turning the cabin into a candlelit fairyland … an idyll that lasted until the tread of his father sounded on the companionway stairs.

Brushing aside the nagging sense that running away from the city had solved nothing, she focused on the fervor in Rory’s voice when he told her there’d never been anyone for him like her.

Slowly, she took off her clothes and wrapped herself in Rory’s gift. The silk was the same hue as the ruby sparkling on her finger, black velvet an elegant foil. She picked up the brush Rory had bought her in Carmel and tamed her hair. With care, she removed the Band-aid covering the cut on her forehead. The reminder of the accident, still lined with sutures, reminded her that life was precious and ephemeral, and if she dared tonight, hers for the taking.

Feeling like an infatuated teenager, Rory waited for Mariah on their private fenced patio with a sunken Japanese-style bath. Barefoot on the slate tiles and naked under one of the hotel’s white terry robes, he swirled a snifter of brandy and imagined the dark ocean, more than a thousand feet below. On impulse, he opened the gate and saw a small path, no more than a tantalizing swath of flattened grass, leading away into the Ventana wilderness.

Tomorrow the high country beckoned, with spring hills green and wildflowers in bloom. He and Mariah would walk for hours … and talk. Did she still like peanut butter crackers? What movies could she quote? He couldn’t remember her favorite color; was it red like his?

Breathing the scent of evergreen from the nearby woods, he closed the gate. The bath steamed in the deep forest night, its heat inviting. He decided to wait for Mariah.

A smile curved his lips, and his stomach tightened, his sex stirring with anticipation. He’d told the truth this evening beside the stream where his cellular phone rested in peace. No one had ever made him feel this peculiar mix of thrill and ache.

Not his well-loved wife Elizabeth, with whom he’d had affectionate sex that left him warm yet not quite satisfied, or any of the women he’d tried on and discarded publicly courtesy of “On The Spot.” His first few months of the divorce crazies still had the power to make him ashamed. And not Sylvia Chatsworth.

No, it was Mariah, his first, and the only one he could imagine being with tonight.

Clad in nothing but the silk and velvet wrap Rory had given her, Mariah opened the sliding glass door to the patio. She felt a swell in her chest at the sight of him, bronzed skin against the white of his robe, his hair curling over the collar.

She started to speak, but he put a finger to her lips. “Let’s not spoil it with talk; things go wrong when we talk.”

There was much unsaid between them, yet he was right about the minefields awaiting them should they start discussing reality. Reinforcing her decision not to think but to feel, she accepted the pact by pressing her finger to his lips in turn.

He sipped from the snifter and held it while she drank in the exotic aroma and fiery taste of brandy. Bending, he set the glass on the rim of the bath, glanced toward the steaming pool at their feet, and with eyes on hers, loosed the belt of his robe.

Her breath caught.

Terrycloth slipped from his shoulders and slid down his body.

He was as beautiful as she remembered, the planes of his face sculpted by shadows. No, more so … with the slender strength of a rapier. His long line of torso still tapered to narrow hips and compact rounded buttocks, but now he looked stronger, more substantial. The whorl of hair below his navel pointed the way to his sex, rising powerfully from a dark thicket.

A flush of heat suffused her.

His eyes acknowledged her approval while letting himself down into the dark oval of water. He ducked his head and came up sleek and shining. Although silent, everything about him bespoke his need, from the set of his mouth to his hand, raised dripping from the bath to beckon.

A momentary hesitation, and she loosed the tasseled sash and spread the velvet open. With shaking hands, she pushed the robe from her shoulders. As silk slipped over her hips to pool on the tile, she heard Rory’s audible breath. Though she wasn’t as reed thin as she’d been at eighteen, appreciation warmed his gaze.

Over cool stone, she stepped to the edge and let the warm pool take her into its embrace.

Water swirled as Rory moved with a suddenness that surprised her. His lips, wet from the bath, took hers urgently.

Her mouth opened beneath his as it had on the forest bridge. For a long moment, they explored anew the texture and taste of each another. Then he drew back, reached for the brandy snifter and dipped a finger. Very slowly, he moved his hand toward her while she drew in her breath at what she believed to be his destination. Sure enough, he touched the liquid drop to the tip of her bare breast.

With a gasp, she brought her hands up to grip his head, guiding his kiss to her taut peak. He teased and tantalized, his tongue hotter than the bath water. When she was aglow with need, he lifted his head and reached for more brandy.

She beat him to it. Bending, she flicked her tongue over his tight brown nipple, licking at the pungent liquor. It was his turn to hold her mouth hard against him while she reveled in her power to make him moan low in his throat, “Mariah.”

The sound of her name uttered in that profoundly sensual tone sent sparks running along her nerves. Deep and low inside her, an aching void grew. This was the feeling she’d known eight years ago each time he started making love to her. Then, as now, there had been no words, just the soft exhalation of need that grew sharper with each passing moment.

Rory reveled in sensation. This was the urgency he’d known with her in
Privateer’s
berth, when he’d shoved aside a pile of life jackets to make a place for them their first time. Never in his young life had such a wild current surged. Perhaps the forbidden aura surrounding John Grant’s daughter had driven him to make the first move, but once he tasted her sweetness and saw it metamorphose to passion, he was hooked.

Tonight, made impatient by his pounding blood, he climbed from the pool and extended a hand to help her out. She emerged with water sheeting silver over her breasts and down the curve of belly. Her hips had the right fullness, her breasts were small and perfect, pink-tipped the way he thought a woman should be. Without breaking their grasp, he scooped up his robe and used the terrycloth to scrub beaded droplets from their bodies.

Moving swiftly, he led her inside where firelight played over the quilted bed comforter. He’d take her down now, bury himself in her warmth …

But that wasn’t right. He was no longer an importunate youth who’d gone after what his body desired with no holds barred. Tonight, he wanted to explore with subtlety. No rushing his fences, no quick hot coupling, despite that he could barely deny this urgency.

Drawing a slow breath, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her against him, his arms around her waist. He laid his cheek against her stomach reverently.