Inner Harbor (22 page)

He'd nearly been fooled, he mused, into believing she was cold and distant and untouched by the messier emotions. He couldn't be sure what it was that insisted he believe differently. Maybe it was nothing more than wishful thinking, but he was determined to find out for himself. And soon.

He knew that making her family secrets accessible and so informally public would be humiliating for her, and perhaps painful. But she'd agreed without condition and was following through without hesitation.

Standards, he thought. Integrity. She had them. And he believed that she had heart as well.

Sybill offered a thin smile as she came back out. “Well, that's the first time I've seen a notary's eyes nearly pop out of her head. I think that should—”

The rest of her babbling statement was lost as his mouth rushed to cover hers. She lifted a hand to his shoulder, but her fingers only curled into the soft material of his sweater.

“You looked like you needed it,” he murmured, and skimmed a hand over her cheek.

“Regardless—”

“Hell, Sybill, we've already got them talking. Why not add to the mystery?”

Her emotions were rocking, making it difficult for her to hold on to any threads of composure. “I've no intention of standing here making a spectacle of myself. So if you'll—”

“Fine. Let's go somewhere else. I've got the boat.”

“The boat? I can't go out on the boat. I'm not dressed for it. I have work.” I need to think, she told herself, but he was already pulling her to the dock.

“A sail will do you good. You're starting on another headache. The fresh air should help.”

“I don't have a headache.” Only the nasty, simmering threat of one. “And I don't want to—” She nearly yelped, so stunned was she when he simply plucked her off her feet and set her down on the deck.

“Consider yourself shanghaied, doc.” Quickly, competently, he freed the lines and leaped aboard. “I have a feeling you haven't had nearly enough of that kind of treatment in your short, sheltered life.”

“You don't know anything about my life, or what I've had. If you start that engine, I'm going to—” She broke off, grinding her teeth as the motor putted to life. “Phillip, I want to go back to my hotel. Now.”

“Hardly anybody ever says no to you, do they?” He said it cheerfully as he gave her a firm nudge onto the port bench. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

Since she didn't intend to leap overboard and swim back to shore in a silk suit and Italian shoes, she folded her arms. It was his way of paying her back, she supposed, by taking away her freedom of choice, asserting his will and his physical dominance.

Typical.

She turned her head to stare out over the light chop. She wasn't afraid of him, not physically. He had a tougher side than she'd originally thought, but he wouldn't hurt her. And because he cared for Seth, deeply, she'd come to believe, he needed her cooperation.

She refused to be thrilled when he hoisted the sails. The sound of the canvas opening itself to the wind, the sight of the sun beating against the rippling white, the sudden and smooth angling of the boat, meant nothing to her, she insisted.

She would simply tolerate this little game of his, give him no reaction. Undoubtedly, he would grow weary of her silence and inattention and take her back.

“Here.” He tossed something, making her jump. She looked down and saw the sunglasses that had landed neatly in her lap. “Sun's fierce today, even if the temperature's cooling. Indian summer's around the corner.”

He smiled to himself when she said nothing, only slid the sunglasses primly on her nose and continued to stare in the opposite direction.

“We need a good hard frost first,” he continued conversationally. “When the leaves start to turn, the shoreline near the house is a picture. Golds and scarlets. You get that deep blue sky behind them, and the water mirror-bright, that spice of fall on the air, and you could start to believe there's no place else on the planet you'd ever want to be.”

She kept her mouth firmly shut, tightened the fold of her arms across her breasts.

Phillip merely tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Even a couple of avowed urbanites like you and I can appreciate a fine fall day in the country. Seth's birthday's coming up.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her head jerk around, her mouth tremble open. She shut it again, but this time when she turned away, her shoulders where hunched defensively.

Oh, she felt all right, Phillip mused. There were plenty of messy emotions stewing inside that cool package of hers.

“We thought we'd throw him a party, have some of his pals over to raise hell. You already know Grace bakes a hell of a chocolate cake. We've got his present taken care of. But just the other day I saw these art supplies in this shop in Baltimore. Not a kid's setup, a real one. Chalk, pencils, charcoal, brushes, watercolors, paper, palettes. It's a specialty shop a few blocks from my office. Somebody who knew something about art could breeze in there and pick out just the right things.”

He'd intended to do so himself, but he saw now that his instincts to tell her about it had been true. She was facing him now, and though the sun flashed off her sunglasses, he could
see from the angle of her head that he had her full attention.

“He wouldn't want anything from me.”

“You're not giving him enough credit. Maybe you're not giving yourself enough either.”

He trimmed the sails, caught the wind, and saw the instant she recognized the curve of trees along the shore. She got unsteadily to her feet. “Phillip, however you may feel about me right now, it can't help the situation for you to push me at Seth again so soon.”

“I'm not taking you home.” He scanned the yard as they passed. “Seth's at the boatyard with Cam and Ethan, in any case. You need a distraction, Sybill, not a confrontation. And for the record, I don't know how I feel about you at the moment.”

“I've told you everything I know.”

“Yeah, I think you've given me the facts. You haven't told me how you feel, how those facts affect you personally, emotionally.”

“It isn't the issue.”

“I'm making it an issue. We're tangled up here, Sybill, whether we like it or not. Seth's your nephew, and he's mine. My father and your mother had an affair. And we're about to.”

“No,” she said definitely, “we're not.”

He turned his head long enough to shoot her a glittering look. “You know better than that. You're in my system, and I know when a woman's got me in hers.”

“And we're both old enough to control our more basic urges.”

He stared at her another moment, then laughed. “Hell we are. And it's not the sex that worries you. It's the intimacy.”

He was hitting all the targets. It didn't anger her nearly as much as it frightened her. “You don't know me.”

“I'm beginning to,” he said quietly. “And I'm someone
else who finishes what I start. I'm coming about.” His voice was mild now. “Watch the boom.”

She stepped out of the way, sat. She recognized the little cove where they had shared wine and paté. Only a week ago, she thought dully. Now so much had changed. Everything had changed.

She couldn't be here with him, couldn't risk it. The idea of handling him now was absurd. Still, she could do nothing but try.

Coolly, she eyed him. Casually, she smoothed her hand over the sophisticated twist the wind had disordered. Caustically, she smiled. “What, no wine this time? No music, no neat gourmet lunch?”

He dropped the sails, secured the boat. “You're scared.”

“You're arrogant. And you don't worry me.”

“Now you're lying.” While the boat swayed gently underfoot, he stepped forward and took the sunglasses from her. “I worry you, quite a bit. You keep thinking you have me pegged, then I don't follow the script. I imagine most of the men you've let hover around your life have been fairly predictable. Easier for you.”

“Is this your definition of a distraction?” she countered. “It fits my definition of a confrontation.”

“You're right.” He pulled his own sunglasses off, tossed them aside. “We'll analyze later.”

He moved quickly. She knew he was capable of lightning motion but hadn't expected him to snap from cynic to lover in the blink of an eye. His mouth was hot, hungry, and hard on hers. His hands gripped her arms, pressing her against him so that as the heat and the need poured out, she couldn't tell if it came from him or from herself.

He'd spoken no less than the truth when he told her she was in his system. Whether she was poison or salvation didn't seem to matter. She was in there and he couldn't stop the flow.

He jerked her back so that their lips parted, but their faces
remained close. His eyes were as gold and powerful as the flare of the sun. “You tell me you don't want me, you don't want this. Tell me and mean it, and it stops here.”

“I—”

“No.” Impatient, suffering, he shook her until her gaze lifted to his again. “No, you look at me and say it.”

She'd already lied, and the lies weighed on her like lead. She couldn't bear another. “This will only complicate things, make them more difficult.”

Unmistakable triumph flashed into those tawny eyes. “Damn right it will,” he muttered. “Just now, I don't give a damn. Kiss me back,” he demanded. “And mean it.”

She couldn't stop herself. This kind of raw, wicked need was new to her, and left her defenseless. Her mouth met his, just as hungry now, just as desperate. And the low, primal moan that escaped was an echo to the beat of desire between her legs.

She stopped thinking. Found herself swamped and spinning with sensations, emotions, yearnings. The kiss roughened, teetered toward pain as his teeth scraped and nipped. She clutched at his hair, gasping for air, shaking with shock as that skillful mouth streaked down her throat and sent wild chills over her skin.

For the first time in her life, she surrendered utterly to the physical. And craved the taking.

He pulled at her jacket, tugging the soft silk off her shoulders and tossing it heedlessly aside. He wanted flesh, the feel of it under his hands, the taste of it in his mouth. He yanked the slim ivory shell over her head and filled his hands with her trembling lace-covered breasts.

Her skin was warmer than the silk, and somehow smoother. With one impatient flick he opened her bra, then dragged it aside. And satisfied his need to taste.

The sun blinded her. Even with her eyes tightly shut, the strength of it pounded on her lids. She couldn't see, only feel.
That busy, almost brutal mouth devoured her, those rough and demanding hands doing as they pleased. The whimper in her throat was a scream in her head.

Now, now, now!

Fumbling, she dragged at his sweater, finding the muscle and scars and flesh beneath as he yanked her skirt down her hips. Her stockings ended with thin bands of stretchy lace high on her thighs. Another time he might have appreciated the mix of practicality and femininity. But now he was driven to possess, and he thrilled darkly at her stunned gasp when he ripped aside the thin triangle blocking him from her. Before she could draw the next breath, he plunged his fingers into her and shot her violently over the edge.

She cried out, shocked, staggered at that vicious slap of heat. It sliced through her without warning, sending her flying, flailing.

“Oh, God. Phillip.” When her head dropped weakly on his shoulder, her body going from spring-taut to limp, he swept her off her feet and pressed her down on one of the narrow benches.

The blood was pounding in his head. His loins screamed for release. His heart hammered like a dull axe against his ribs.

His breath was ragged, his vision focused on her face like a laser as he freed himself. His fingers dug into her hips as he lifted and opened them. And he plunged. Hard and deep so that his long, long groan melted into hers.

She closed around him, a tight, hot glove. Moved under him, a trembling, eager woman. Breathed his name, a breathless, aching sigh.

He drove into her again, again, strong, steady strokes that she rose to meet. Her hair escaped its pins, flowed like rich mink. He buried his face in it, lost in her scent, in her heat, in the sheer, shimmering glory of a woman aroused beyond reason.

Her nails dug into his back, her cry muffled against his shoulder as she came. Her muscles clamped around him, owned him, destroyed him.

He was as limp as she, wrecked, struggling to fill his burning lungs with air. Beneath him, her body continued to quake, the aftershock of hard, satisfying sex.

When his vision cleared, he could see the three pieces of her pretty businesswoman's suit scattered along the deck. And one black high heel. It made him grin even as he shifted just enough to nip lightly at her shoulder.

“I usually try for more finesse,” he said. Slyly, he skimmed a hand down to toy with the thin lace at the top of her stocking, experimenting with textures. “Oh, you're full of surprises, Dr. Griffin.”