Dangerous Ladies (57 page)

He sprinted after her. When he topped the rise, he saw her bath-robed figure on the winding path headed over the dunes toward the
beach. “Meadow,” he called. The breeze carried his voice away, so he bellowed, “Meadow!”

She turned. He thought she would frown at him, as she had when he broke up her soap opera party, or clutch her robe together in that maidenly skittishness she displayed whenever he showed the tiniest hint of his sexuality.

But no. She grinned and ran back to him. “Did you come out to play, too?”

“Come out to play?” He hadn’t heard that term since third grade.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” She waved an all-encompassing arm at the lawn, the dunes, the sky. “Don’t you love living here? Don’t you love the sound of the waves and the smell of the ocean and the scent of the pines?” She seemed giddy.

“Did you hit your head again?” he asked warily.

She laughed without a worry as to who might hear. “It’s the full moon. Come on!” She grabbed his hand. “Let dance!”

She pulled him along, holding his arm in the air, stomping her feet in some weird version of Greek dancing.

“Isn’t this fun?” she called.

He felt stupid, like an onlooker at a drunken party. Plus, security was watching for saboteurs coming up the beach, and he’d be damned if they were going to see him prancing around like a sailor on leave. He stopped and, like an anchor, hung on to her.

She stopped, too—she had no choice—and glared at him in exasperation.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

“You do not.” But she lavished that stunning smile on him. “What?”

“Come on.” He led her along the winding path back into the depths of the estate.

“What’s that?” She pointed at the ivied walls rising ahead.

“That’s where we’re going.” He led her toward the tall, heavy, timbered gate. Pulling the key out of his pocket, he showed it to her.

He felt her flinch. He heard her draw a breath.

So she recognized it. It probably matched the one she’d used to get into the house.

Fitting the key in the lock, he turned it. He experienced an odd sensation, a sort of breathlessness, although he didn’t know why. Then he realized—he actually anticipated the look on her face when he showed her. . . . He pushed the door open and stepped aside.

Her expression of delight was everything he could have wished. “Look. It
is
the Secret Garden!” She bounded in, her robe fluttering behind her.

Her enthusiasm bubbled up like champagne, intoxicating him, and he hurried after her, calling, “Would you slow down?”

“Don’t be silly!” She disappeared around the corner, and her voice called back, “How could I slow down when the moon is full and I’m in the Secret Garden?” She laughed, one of those full-bodied laughs that made his testosterone levels surge. Then, “Oh!”

He came around the corner and almost ran into her.

She stood stock-still before the wide expanse of lawn that was the heart of the garden. A tangle of pine and rhododendrons occupied one corner. An immense live oak spread its branches over a marble bench. An artificial waterfall sparkled over real boulders and into a pool, and frogs called their love songs.

And at the center of the broad sweep of the glade was a pergola where an ancient wisteria vine twisted up and over, thick with blooms.

It was just the way he’d planned it. He’d seen in the garden a marvelous asset. He’d approved its cleanup, the plantings, and the installation of the waterfall. Transforming the garden from a tangled jungle into a romantic hideaway made financial sense—after all, the value of the Secret Garden increased once lovers started hiring the hotel to plan their weddings.

But he wasn’t thinking of finance while he basked in the awe on her face.

“This is . . . so beautiful.” Her voice choked with tears.

In the moonlight, the garden glowed with light and shadow, glory and mystery.

So did Meadow. The moon’s glow lit her face, and at the same time she radiated pure joy. “Thank you for bringing me here. Thank you for showing me this. I don’t care what everyone says about you. You’re wonderful!”

Leaving him speechless, she danced away.

She twirled in a circle, around and around, laughing lightly. Then she did something that stopped his breath.

She shed her robe.

The moon shone through the thin white material of her nightgown. As she whirled, he could see her legs, her hips, her waist, her breasts in silhouette.

She was glorious, a white candle topped by flame.

Then . . . she pulled her nightgown up and off over her head.

He’d seen his share of naked women. He’d visited Mediterranean beaches where toplessness was a way of life. But he had never seen anything as bold and innocently sexy as Meadow worshipping the moon. She paid him no heed, but swayed to an inner rhythm, her feet bare, her thighs strong and muscled, her small breasts high and pale.

If he believed in witches, he would believe in her. She made him want to dance in the moonlight. She made him want to shout, to sing, to fuck.

She made him want to live. And that was goddamn stupid, because he was already living.

Except . . . as he watched her, he knew he was lying to himself. He hadn’t been alive for years. Maybe he’d never been alive.

Her expression was fiercely exultant, as if the night were her lover and she the only woman who could satisfy him.

But no. Devlin wanted to be her lover.

He discarded his shoes.

Stupid move, but not fatally stupid, because he kept his pants on. As long as those pants were on, the two of them were safe from something so impetuous, it would be madness.

He walked toward her, seeing nothing but her.

As she twirled toward him, her smile blossomed.

“Let me show you what moonlight is made for.” Sliding his arm around her back, he placed his hand on her bare back.

And for the first time, he got real benefit out of his Southern-gentleman training. Unhurriedly he guided her through the basic steps of the waltz, teaching her; then, as she gained confidence, he took her in wider and wider circles, speeding up, carrying her along with him.

She felt small in his arms, and with each turn her body brushed against him, teasing him. Her scent rose in his nostrils and fired synapses in his brain until he knew that if he were blindfolded and shoved into a crowd of women, he would identify her. The breeze sang in his ears, the trees and flowers and pond and pergola whirled past, and she smiled up at him as if
he
had enchanted
her
.

And she was naked in his arms.

Later he didn’t remember planning to do what he did. He was a man who plotted and schemed every moment of his life, his business, and his revenge, yet a silent melody and a merry face swept him away to someplace where only the two of them existed.

The circles got wider and slower.

Her smile dissolved. Her wide eyes focused on him—just him. The two of them loitered through the last steps, their bodies pressed together.

They stopped and stared at each other.

She broke away.

She took his hand.

And she led him toward the pergola.

I
nside the pergola the fragrance of wisteria hung heavy in the air, and the moonlight lay shattered in bright bits on the marble bench, the flagstones, and Meadow’s face.

She struggled to get Devlin’s jeans unbuttoned and unzipped.

He didn’t help her. Hell, why would he, and miss the accidental touches to his groin and occasionally—okay, more than occasionally—the touches to his dick?

For how could she not touch it? It was
gigantic
.

He wanted to chuckle at himself for his testosterone-fed flight of imagination. Trouble was—his dick felt gigantic. It felt powerful.
He
felt powerful.

She pushed his jeans off. His boxers. She ran her fingertips from his balls to his tip.

No other touch had ever felt so good, and he groaned like a callow boy.

“Do you want to dance now?” she whispered, and her husky voice trembled with suppressed laughter.

“You little tease.” Picking the robe off the bench, he spread it over the marble. In one efficient motion he twirled her around and flat onto her back.

For the first time she saw him with a face stripped of guile. The moonlight showed her his soul before the circumstances of his life had stripped away his pleasure in life. Tonight he wasn’t a control freak or a tycoon or a mystery. Tonight he was just a man.

No, he was a
guy
, controlled by his testicles and happy to obey their dictates.

And who was she? A woman who had disregarded her mother’s warnings about the fatal combination of moonlight and men.

Now she was as helpless as he was.

She held up her arms to embrace him.

His dark eyes gleamed in the shards of moonlight, and his teeth flashed as he smiled. With his hands on her shoulders, he pressed her back.

Then those hands wandered . . . down across her breasts, brushing them, learning their shape, their sensitivity.

Her eyes closed as he caressed the curve of the underside, the small circle of her nipples. He knew exactly what he was doing, touching her in such a way that she thought only of the slow, warm slide into arousal.

She didn’t know what to do with her legs. Put her feet on the ground? The bench would be between them. She would be revealed, and it seemed too early for that. Yet when she bent her knee and put one heel against the seat, he murmured, “Darling,” and kissed her inner thigh.

They were going to make love, in this secret garden on this perfect night . . . and maybe this was what she’d planned all along. Her untried emotions felt new and raw, different from any she’d experienced. She felt like an adventurer visiting a place she’d only imagined.

When he slid his hand up her thigh and buried it in the carefully trimmed thatch of copper curls, she arched off the bench in a tumultuous excess of anticipation. “Devlin,” she whispered.

“What? Do you like that?” His finger slid inside her, a deep, leisurely violation. “And this?”

Her eyes opened wide, and when she looked up at him, she saw a handsome face made wondrous by the desire he could fire in her. He was all strong muscle over heavy bones, a man made tough by the fight for success, for honor, for his identity.

He thrust his finger inside her again, and she was swollen, damp—her body betrayed her need with excruciating detail.

She wanted that shirt off him. She wanted it off now. “Take it off.” It was
not
a request.

He smiled. He withdrew his finger from within her and straightened. His hands went to his buttons. One by one he unfastened them, and as unhurriedly as he moved, she might have thought him indifferent to passion.

But as his shirt fell open, she saw his sculpted chest and belly . . . and the proud erection that reached up from his groin.

He stood between her legs, one knee on the seat, masculine, dominant—yet he needed her desperately. She didn’t even know if he realized how much he needed to be civilized . . . no, not even civilized.

Humanized.

The shirt still hung from his shoulders as he leaned down to kiss her breast, taste her nipple. Goose bumps rose in a wave, rushing away from the sensation like a wave, cresting in the sensation that lifted her hips toward him.

He laughed again, very much the man in command, the conquering hero.

She couldn’t allow that.

She sat up on one elbow. She licked one finger and, with its damp tip, she swirled it around the head of his penis.

He groaned—a spontaneous, vibrant sound that made her laugh for joy.

She licked her finger again, but before she could touch him, he caught her wrist and squeezed. Not painfully, but somehow she knew . . . the moonlight, the scents, the passion had broken his fierce will.

They stared at each other, eyes locked.

Then he picked up her knees and spread them wide. He sat on the seat and dragged her toward him until they were groin-to-groin.

The pressure of his erection against her wrenched a moan from her. She wanted . . . needed . . . She tried to position herself to thrust herself on him.

He didn’t allow her that. Didn’t allow her any control. He rubbed himself against her, a long stroke that massaged her clit and made her whole body clench in anticipation. He found the entrance to her body and gradually thrust inside.

He lifted her hips toward him, and each inch filled her past the point of comfort, but she didn’t care. It wasn’t comfort she sought; it was satisfaction, and the craving made her supersensitive.

The scent of him mixed with the fragrance of the night-blooming flowers, the grass, the air. Above him she could see the wisteria hanging off the arbor like ripe clumps of grapes, and beyond that the night sky and moonlight . . . so much moonlight. She could hear the rough rasp of his breath as he thrust all the way in, then reluctantly drew out, and she wanted to clutch at him, make him stay tightly inside her.