Forster, Suzanne (22 page)

His gaze drifted to her bare midriff, as if he were savoring the thought of touching it. Her gaze drifted to his mouth.

They were having sex with their eyes, she realized.

Soon—momentarily—it would be the real thing if she didn't do something.
Stop stroking your bare skin, Featherstone.
Her arms were clamped just beneath her breasts and her thumbnails were leaving tiny white creases on her tanned midriff.

"Are you going to tell me what all this is really about?" she asked. She'd intended umbrage, but somehow a plea for reason slipped into her question.

"I'd rather show you."

His mouth actually tilted as if he might smile. How odd that she'd never thought of that as possible, him smiling, no—him happy. That's what she'd never thought of. Some people seemed fated for tragedy. Jillian had been one of those, and so was Jack Culhane. She'd realized that in the car. Something dark was driving him, and if she'd had to predict his future, she would have said that whatever he was obsessed with would ultimately destroy him. There would never have been any doubt of that in her mind, even his wood carving had seemed too fragile to survive the elements. But now, this frisson of life in his burnt-out eyes, it made her wonder.

"I'm not talking about sex," she was quick to explain. "I meant this,
us,
this sham of a marriage. Your claim that you"—her throat tightened, but she got the word out— "love me. "

He glanced at her mouth again. "Maybe I do."

"That's ridiculous." It actually hurt her that he could be so casual about it, and yet she was pushing him to explain himself. Why? What was she hoping to see as she searched his darkly handsome features? Some sign of the man she was intimate with in the desert, some sign of the vulnerability she remembered?

He shrugged. "A man has to settle down sometime. "

"Oh, I see, even serial killers get the nesting instinct? I suppose Charlie Manson will be announcing his engagement next?"

"As long as we're playing twenty questions with each other, tell me why you faked your own kidnapping. Hell of a publicity stunt for a fading modeling career. Or maybe we want to be an actress now?"

"My modeling career has
not
faded, and even if it had, I'd hardly give a damn. It's never been anything more than a means to an end. "

"Exactly my point, but what end are we talking about?"

"We're not." She crossed the
T
with a figurative snap of her tongue, putting a stop to the conversation.

Bathed in the room's recessed lighting, the silver ice bucket gleamed on the dark mahogany secretary. Jack walked over to it and pulled out the dripping bottle of Dom Perignon. Not bothering with a flute, he gripped the magnum by its neck and hoisted it to his mouth as if he were going to drink from it that way. Just as swiftly he changed his mind. Champagne spumed out, wetting his face, and he twisted away from the alcohol savagely, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

More than anything he resembled a barroom brawler as he dropped the bottle to his side and glared at her. With his

shirt hanging off one shoulder, his dark hair in disarray and his mouth wet with expensive booze, he looked as if he'd just invented a new meaning for the word
trouble.

"You are one hell of an actress by the way, " he told her.

"Thank you. " His mood was turning ugly, and she'd apparently said or done something to trigger it. Get on with it, Gus, she told herself. Get your prizewinning butt out of here.

There was a shiny black spider crawling across the floor in front of him. She noticed it at almost the same time he did. It was the size of a quarter, probably not large as Scorpion Bay spiders went, but plenty big enough to make her uneasy.

Jack watched its approach with all the dispassion of a scientist observing lab rats in a maze. The creature was quick, but hesitant, sensing danger. When it crept into range, Jack glanced up at Gus. His eyes darkened with curiosity, but the faint smile he seemed to be contemplating never materialized. She thought he was going to let the spider finish its odyssey across the enormous tundra of the bedroom. Instead he reached out one glossy black dress shoe and crushed it beneath his toe.

Gus spun around to the doors. It was only an insect, for God's sake. She might have squashed it herself. But that wasn't the problem. That wasn't it. He killed things. He could snuff the breath out of a living thing, even another human, without guilt or remorse. That should have disgusted her, and it did. So then why did she respond to him? Why did she shudder in the deepest parts of her when he looked at her?
And why had he looked at her now as if it were really she he wanted to crush in some perverse and thrilling sexual way?

A strange, discordant hum of excitement swept through her. An invisible maestro plucked at the fibers of her being as if they were bowstrings. Her nerves shivered and tightened. The muscles in her belly coiled, crying out for something she didn't understand.

"It's hot in here," she said, kicking off her sandals. "I'm going out for a swim. "

"You don't have a suit."

"I'll improvise." As she turned to escape through the terrace doors, she glanced over her shoulder at him and unbuttoned one of the side tabs that connected the bodice of her jumpsuit to the palazzo pants. "I'm good at that, " she said.

Silver swirled around her, icy cold and iridescent as she waded out to her thighs and dived in. The shock of it, particularly against the skin of her breasts and buttocks, made her gasp. Plunging headlong into blackness, she penetrated the shallow depths of the bay like a porpoise and began to stroke underwater. She was a strong swimmer. Her stepsister, Jillian, had been obsessed with diet and exercise. She'd had one of the rooms at the Featherstone mansion outfitted with expensive weight equipment, but Gus had always preferred the pool for exercise.

Nearly out of air, she burst to the surface, glanced behind her at the shore, and kept going, swimming rapidly for deeper waters. There would be very little time. She hadn't seen any sign of him, but underestimating a man like him would be a costly mistake if she ever hoped to escape this place and reclaim control of her life.

Moonlight sheened the surface of the water just ahead of her, concentrating its brightness in a dazzling oval. With a few more strokes she was swimming in the midst of the magical display and glowing with its brilliance. Certain that he couldn't miss seeing her, she began to tread water, her arms and legs working rhythmically. The water temperature felt almost comfortable now, she noticed. Her system had completely acclimated and was pouring heat through her naked body, which she was sure must be a deep, rosy pink.

A moment later she felt currents stirring in the depths beneath her. Something tugged on her ankles, pulling her down. Her first inclination was to kick the shackles away, to fight the undertow. Instead, she let the warm water envelop her, creating its own silky friction as she slipped and slid down the length of a naked man's body. It was him. Dragged into the depths by Jack's weight, she felt as if she were coming into contact with every inch of his muscled frame.

In the weightless environment of deep water, even his ridged flesh was as slick as satin. His shoulders and chest, his thighs, all felt as gleaming hard as marble drenched by rain, a Grecian koros. The power was there; he was totally in control, but every move he made was slowed and accentuated by the counteracting force of the water.

She could feel the heat of him gliding over her, glancing her thighs and belly, caressing her breasts and buttocks. She couldn't always tell what part of his body was touching her, and then she realized it was his hands. They were all over her, curious and possessively male. He ought to have had his face slapped for the way he was touching her, but she made no outward attempt to stop him, even when she began to run out of air.

Her chest tightened, but the wooziness that invaded her senses was warm and pleasant. She would have loved to give in to it, but within seconds the lethargy seeping through her made her realize what was happening. He was a strong swimmer, too, and with far more lung capacity. He could hold her under until she was nearly unconscious, weakening her to the point where she couldn't fight.

Intuition told her that the only way to regain control was to give it up, to surrender completely and trust that he wouldn't let her drown. She allowed herself to go limp, and his response was immediate. Curling her loosely in his arms, he dived, and she spiraled madly, helpless as he arced into a graceful somersault and they glided back to the surface.

By the time they broke through the glassy barrier, she ached for breath. "My God!" she gasped, sucking in every ounce of air she could. But he didn't let her fill her lungs completely. His mouth covered hers before she could sate herself or regain her strength. She gripped his biceps, her chest heaving against him, her breasts shuddering with urgency. It was a desperate kiss, ignited by the panic that was running through her. She was certain she would faint if he let go of her; she might even die. What she didn't know was whether it was from lack of air... or lack of him.

As if he understood her hysteria, he cupped her buttocks firmly anchoring her and blew gently into her mouth, exhaling the warm, moist air she so desperately needed into her aching throat. She drew in deeply, taking everything he gave her, allowing him to be her source of oxygen, of life itself. Gulping and shuddering, she clung to him, tears squeezing through her closed lids. He was her lifeline, her deliverance, but it wasn't until she finally calmed a little that he truly took control.

As she moved to break the kiss, he released her, and they submerged again. It was over in a matter of seconds, but she was plummeting like a rock when he caught her under the arms and brought her with him to the surface. This time his grip was deliberate and possessive, driven by some male need to master whatever was ungovernable in the situation, in the woman. His breath was trembling, his mouth hungry as it touched hers.

"Be my wife," he said.

The throaty need in his voice touched something raw and needful in Gus, too. He wasn't a man given to displays of tenderness, but his lips were gentle, and yet so firebrand hot that she nearly succumbed to a melting surge of desire. She had intended to surrender, but she hadn't meant it to be unconditional. This was no longer a controlled descent. She was truly losing it.

His strong kicks kept them afloat. Gus wouldn't have cared if they'd gone under again if it would have quenched the fire that razed her insides. He was holding her under the arms, and his palms had pressed into the sides of her breasts, molding and lifting them. She gave out a hoarse moan as he raised her up and took one of her tingling nipples into his mouth. Her flesh felt so full and urgent she nearly cried.

Desire flashed, streaking a path to the heat between her legs. "Touch me," she begged him. "Deeply... taste me with your mouth. "

He sank into the silver pool and disappeared. She closed her eyes, praying for the strength to do what she had to. She so wanted the pleasure he could give her that she let him splay his hands across her bottom and press his mouth to the dark curls that hid her throbbing center. His tongue darted over her, bringing her unbelievably sharp sensations. But when it touched her clitoris, she gave out a throttled cry. Confusion and conflict flooded her. She couldn't do this. She couldn't let him do it. She had to act.

Now,
she told herself.
You'll never get another chance!
With a sudden surge of resolve, she lifted her knee and caught him squarely beneath the chin, sending him spuming backward in a geyser of flashing limbs and bubbles. Her whole body trembled with the violence of it, trembled with the shockwave of unrelieved desire that flared through her.

She kicked off with all the power she could muster and began to swim frantically. They had drifted in toward shore, which was now less than a hundred feet away. She didn't look back until she was on the beach, and then only long enough to see that he wasn't coming after her. He didn't even seem to have surfaced. The flash of horror she felt reminded her of the snakepit in the desert shack. She hadn't been able to leave him there either. She'd returned for him, saved him.

She wouldn't do that now. She would never be free of him. Never. He wouldn't allow her to be.

His tux pants were lying on the beach, next to her jumpsuit. She scooped both articles of clothing up and ran for the suite. When she reached the top of the steps, she glanced over her shoulder again. The bay still looked quiet, frighteningly placid. Had he drowned? Or was it a trick? He'd been able to swim out to her without a sound, not even a ripple. He could be hidden in the shadows of the bay right now, or swimming back to shore underwater.

With a choked sound, she turned and ran for the room.

Chapter 13

This time she really
had
killed him.

Gus cupped with both hands the Bloody Mary the stewardess had brought her, chilled by the glass's icy coldness. Her palms were wet, whether with condensation or perspiration she couldn't tell, but she was unwilling to let go of the drink. It was all she could do to raise the glass to her lips.

Dead. He was dead. It didn't matter anymore that the marriage had taken place at gunpoint or that the ceremony was a complete sham, based on spite, acrimony, and revenge. All Gus could think about was what she'd done. Her husband of less than a day was floating naked at the bottom of Scorpion Bay in the gulf off Baja. Jack Culhane had sunk like a stone. She had drowned him on the first night of their honeymoon, and now she was fleeing the scene of the crime.

The enormity of her predicament brought a violent shudder.

"Cold, dear?" asked the bright-eyed stewardess who bent to tidy up the puddle of Snappy Tom and vodka that Gus's inner earthquake had created. "Need a blanket?"

"No, thanks, " Gus said, quite certain that a stack of blankets wouldn't have helped. She would never be warm again. Small wonder that she'd seen a tragic aura around him. She was the tragedy. She'd sensed that his ship was headed for the rocks, but not that she was going to
be
those rocks. It was true she'd wanted to be rid of him, but she hadn't really meant for him to die... had she?