Notorious (16 page)

“Every man in the theater audience will disagree.” His hands slid up her back, unfastened
the catch of the gown, and began to massage her nape. “I may decide to bury the film like Howard Hughes did
The Outlaw.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” she whispered. Her breasts were swelling against the gown’s thin material, and she could feel the nipples harden in helpless response as his hands slid around to caress her. “Would you?”

“No.” He pulled the gown down, baring her shoulders. “But only because I know I couldn’t get away with it. You’d tip your hat and say good-bye.”

As he was going to do, she thought sadly. But not yet. Not tonight. The thought brought a frantic urgency in its wake. She stepped back and pulled the gown down to her waist and pushed it over her hips to pool on the floor, leaving her in only a garter belt, stockings, and high heels. “I’m not wearing a hat.”

He went still as his gaze traveled over her bare breasts. “You’re not wearing much of anything. I don’t believe that was the style in the forties.” He bent forward, his mouth opening to envelope one breast. “But who am I to complain?”

She cried out and arched forward as his teeth closed on her nipple. Fire streaked through her, the muscles clenched in her stomach. “Sabin …”

He lifted his head to smile down at her. “Hard edges? I’ll show you hard edges.” He lifted her and set her on the table. “I’m nothing but rock hard and edged. I feel as if every breath is cutting into me.” He took a step back and stripped off his gray coat, jacket, tie, and shirt, his gaze fastened on her. “Take off the rest, Mallory.”

She gazed at him, startled.

“No cameras. No Ben. Just me. Do it for me.”

She gazed at him thoughtfully, and the realization came to her that he needed this. He had told her how jealous and tormented he had been as he had watched those blasted tapes.

“For you,” she said softly. She reached down and slowly unfastened the tab holding the stocking on her left thigh.

It was different.

She had been acting the temptress when she had performed on those other tapes; there was no acting now. Every muscle of her body was charged with a desire and hunger so intense, she
could feel it ripple through her with every motion as she slowly peeled off the few pieces of clothing still remaining. Sabin’s gaze was hard, hot, his body tense as he watched every movement. She could feel her breasts ripen, become heavier beneath his stare, and every breath was an effort as her lungs contracted. When she was done she sat there, looking at him, her cheeks flaming with color.

“Lie down.” His voice was almost guttural as his hands undid his belt.

Her eyes widened. “On the table? There’s no room.”

He took three steps forward and with one sweeping movement dashed the vase and candle from the table to the floor. “Now there’s room.” He undid her chignon, and her hair flowed down her back. “Lie down, love.”

His gaze held her own as he carefully lowered her backward on the small round table, arranging her hair so that it hung in a curtain over the edge of the table. The other side of the table supported only her upper thighs.

“It’s too small,” she whispered.

He shook his head and brought her palm to rub his chest. “It’s just right. You’ll see.” He widened her thighs, his thumb searching, pressing.

She cried out, her back arching up from the table.

His thumb rotated slowly. She bit her lower lip to keep from screaming with pleasure.

He drew a harsh breath. “Now stay there. Don’t move. I want to look at you as I finish undressing.”

He moved out of her line of view, and she could hear the rasp of his belt as he drew it through the loops. Her heart began to pound harder, and her muscles tautened with unbearable tension. She was acutely conscious of the ceiling fan whirling above her, the hot camera lights staring down at her. There was something intensely erotic about lying here before Sabin, open to him, knowing he was looking at her and yet unable to see him. The heavy weight of her hair streaming down, pulled by gravity and her position, was like a manacle holding her for his pleasure … and her own. She began to tremble helplessly. “Sabin?”

“Soon.” She heard the soft thud of a shoe dropping somewhere across the room. “Think about it.” His deep, beautiful voice reverberated in the room. “Think about how it’s going to be. How I’ll feel inside you. How we’ll be together.”

Her jaw clenched as a burning began deep inside her. She moaned deep in her throat and moved, undulated, on the table.

She heard the sharp intake of his breath. “Lord, do you know how you look? I can’t—”

“Sabin!” It was an urgent cry.

“Shh, I’m here.”

He was standing over her, naked. His expression intent, his deep chest lifting and falling with the harshness of his breathing. The muscles of his stomach and thighs were tight, locked with the tension of anticipation. She wanted to reach out and run her fingers over the triangle of hair thatching his chest. She just wanted to
touch
him.

He lifted her thighs and drew her to the edge of the table. “Wrap your legs around me,” he murmured, his hand cupping, squeezing her. “Hot.
Lord, you’re on fire. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

She knew only how it made her feel. Her legs encircled him as she started to pant, her breath coming in gasps, her head thrashed back and forth on the damask cloth. “Sabin, I need you. I can’t stand—”

He sank deep, hard, thick, wonderful.

She shuddered and moistened her lips with her tongue. “Yes,” she whispered. “That’s what I need.”

He was still, looking down at her with narrowed eyes, his nostrils flaring. His palms slid around and cupped her bottom. “Hard edged?” He lifted her high and plunged deep at the same time.

She cried out, staring up at him in mindless pleasure.

He did it again, and again, and again, his hips jerking with pistonlike regularity, sending her a hot, almost brutal message of lustful pleasure. “This is
me
. Is this what you want?”

She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t breathe. She
felt as if every inch of her flesh was burning with the waves of pleasure going through her.

“Is it?”

“Yes …”

He plunged wildly, his eyes above her as glazed and mindless as her own. He touched her to the quick. “Take …”

The tears rolled down her cheeks as she tried to take more of him.

Searing hunger.

Pleasure.

Madness.

And, at last, completion.

Mallory couldn’t stop sobbing as Sabin collapsed over her. Her arms slid around him, holding him frantically as the last rapturous spasms shuddered through them both.

“I wish you’d stop crying.” Sabin’s voice was uneven. “I can’t be sure if I’ve hurt you with those tears pouring down your face.”

She laughed shakily. “You didn’t hurt me. It was …” She trailed off and shook her head. “I think I went a little crazy.”

He straightened, gently patting the curls surrounding
her womanhood before stepping back and leaving her. “Me, too.” He lifted her to a sitting position on the table and smoothed back her hair.

The caress was poignantly familiar, peculiarly his own. How many times before had Sabin reached up and gently stroked back her hair in just that way?

He cupped her cheeks in his palms and kissed her on the mouth. “It was too long a wait. We’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”

She looked at him dazedly. “I … should get dressed.”

He shook his head. “Why? The door’s locked and no one’s going to come in. I like to look at you.” He stepped closer again and took her in his arms, cuddling her, cosseting her.

She liked to look at him too. She wanted to reach out and run her palm over the flat muscularity of his stomach, the brawny tree trunk thighs. “What are we going to do now?”

He reluctantly released her and stepped back. “Eat dinner?” His eyes twinkled. “It will give us a taste of what life’s like in a nudist colony.”

She stood up and shook her head. “I believe in a touch of mystery.” She picked up her gown and slipped it over her head. “I don’t want you to get tired of me too soon.”

His smile vanished. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.” He turned away and walked over to the table where he had set the picnic basket. “And I don’t want to talk about that three-month bull right now.”

Neither did she, Mallory thought with a wrenching pang. Their time together would come to an end soon enough without dwelling on it. She padded across the room toward him, her bare feet cool on the tile floor. “Aren’t you going to dress?”

“No.” His tone was clipped. “There’s no mystique about me. What you see is what you get.” He opened the basket. “And believe me, you’ll be getting plenty of me from now on. I’m not about to lurk in the background any longer.”

“I never asked you to stay in the background.”

He took out a tray of sandwiches and a bottle of wine from the basket and set them on the table. “Eat.”

She stood looking at him uncertainly.

He looked up at her and a wry smile curved his lips. “It’s okay. Just a few of those sharp edges showing again. I feel a little raw.”

“Why?”

He shook his head as he began rummaging in the basket again. “Never mind. I’ll get over it.”

Get over what? she wondered. She opened her lips to pursue the question and then closed them without asking. He was with her again, and she wanted nothing to disturb the harmony of their togetherness.

She forced a smile and stepped closer to him. “Let me help. Are there any wineglasses in that basket?”

T
HE PHONE SHRILLED
in the darkness.

Mallory murmured and burrowed closer to Sabin on the sofa bed.

The phone rang again.

Drat it, she didn’t want to move, she thought drowsily. Her five o’clock wake-up call would come soon enough.

The phone rang again.

“I’ll get it.” Sabin rolled away from her, got out of bed, and turned on the light. “It’s probably a wrong number anyway.”

She watched him cross to the phone on the table beneath the window. Lord, he had a fantastic tush. “Then why answer it?”

“People who ring in the middle of the night are
usually under the influence or have an emergency. Either way, they don’t give up easily.” He picked up the receiver. “Hello.” He waited and then said it again. “Hello. Who is this?”

He replaced the receiver and came back to bed. “I told you it was a wrong number. They hung up.”

Mallory tensed with familiar dread before she forced herself to relax. Not here. This was Marasef, not New York.

It must have been a wrong number just as Sabin had said.

Sabin flicked off the light, lay down beside Mallory, and pulled her close. He nuzzled her temple. “It seems a shame to go back to sleep when we have only a few hours until dawn.”

She chuckled. “You’re already half-asleep.”

“Are you impugning my stamina?”

“After last night? I wouldn’t dare.”

He kissed her shoulder. “Then why don’t we—” He broke off and shook his head. “Sorry, I didn’t think. You have to work this morning and need your rest. Go back to sleep.”

“If you’d rather—”

“Oh, I’d definitely ‘rather,’” he said dryly. “But I’m not going to do it. I’ve got to learn not to be such a selfish bastard. Believe me, it’s not easy for me after all these years of thinking only of myself. Now hush and go back to sleep.”

They lay snuggled together, warmly, beautifully content. A short time later she could tell by Sabin’s even breathing that he’d drifted off to sleep again.

Not here, Mallory thought, gazing at the shadowy shape of the telephone across the room. She was safe here in Sedikhan; safe with Sabin. The person on the other end of the line had probably not hung up immediately because he had been startled that Sabin had answered in English. She would forget all about the blasted call and go back to sleep.

But it was over an hour later before she finally fell into an uneasy doze.

For the next two days, Sabin visited the set constantly. Handel was surprisingly lenient about his presence, and a few times Mallory had actually
seen him stroll over to the corner where Sabin was sitting and chat for a few moments.

“Which one of you is softening?” she asked Sabin as she joined him after the second day’s shoot. “I was sure Handel would have you thrown off the set.”

Sabin shrugged. “Creative temperament is all very well, but all directors know it’s damn difficult to earn a living directing when the cash ceases to flow into a production. Handel’s not stupid enough to cut off his nose to spite his face on future projects.” He stood up and took her arm. “Finished for the day?”

“Finished, period. That was my last scene in the picture.”

“Good. Now can we concentrate on—”

“Mr. Wyatt?” A young gofer boy was at Sabin’s elbow. “Phone call for you on line two.” He handed him the phone and pulled up the aerial before turning and hurrying back toward the set.

“I’ll get out of this costume and meet you back here in forty minutes,” Mallory said as Sabin
pushed the button for line two and spoke into the receiver.

He nodded absently as he listened to the person on the other end of the line.

Mallory turned and began to weave her way around the cameras, careful not to trip over the thick cords snaking across the floor of the hangar.

Sabin caught up with her before she reached the door. “Let’s go.”

She looked at him, startled. “Now? But I told you—” She broke off as she saw his face. He was pale beneath his tan, and his lips were drawn in a grim line. “What’s wrong?”

“Plenty. There’s no time for you to change.” He grabbed her arm and strode toward the door. “That was my office. Carey’s been taken to the emergency room at Sedikhan General Hospital.”

“Carey?” Mallory hurried to keep pace with him. “An accident?”

Sabin nodded curtly. “He was crossing the street in front of the Wyatt office building and was run down by a car. The bastard didn’t even bother to stop.”

“No,” Mallory whispered, her eyes wide with horror. “Is he badly hurt?”

“I don’t know.” Sabin flung open the door and propelled her toward the Mercedes parked next to the hangar. “He was unconscious when the ambulance took him to the hospital.” He opened the car door. “We’ll just have to see.”