Strangers in Paradise (13 page)

He had just offered her an out. She couldn't take it. It was her chance to run, offered in tenderness.

“You're the one who is all talk, Mr. Morrow,” Alexi murmured.

She heard him inhale sharply. “Last chance, Ms. Jordan. I'm a pretty nice guy, nine times out of ten. But if you don't get out of this car right now, I won't answer for the consequences.”

Alexi didn't move. “Promises, promises, Morrow.”

Her door slammed sharply. A second later, his did the same after he sank back into the bucket seat beside her. She felt his eyes on her, but she couldn't turn.

“Well, you know you're committed now, huh, Alexi?” She felt the anger that edged his words. “Is that what you want? Or is that what you need? ‘Push the guy so far that there is no backing down'? Make sure it's what you want, Alexi. I'll be damned if I understand you. Make sure.”

“Drive, would you, Rex?”

He shook his head. She felt herself pulled into his arms, pulled hard. His mouth came down hard on hers. Her lips parted; she felt the demand of his, forceful, hungry and entirely persuasive.

And it was good. Deliciously, wonderfully good. He tasted of the honeyed chicken and the plum wine and, beyond that, completely, tantalizingly male. This time she could respond. She trembled when his tongue thrust into the crevices of her mouth, filling her, arousing her. She grew bold and she herself explored, running the tip of her tongue along his lower lip and then his upper lip, against his teeth, against his tongue, in a sleek, sensual persuasion of her own. It was really wonderful. The scent of him filled her, as male as the taste of him, unique. Her fingertips played against the hair at his nape, over the strong structure of his cheek, to the fascinating breadth of his shoulders. And all the while she felt his kiss. Against her lip, against her throat, against the beat of her pulse there. She felt his fingers, feather-light, against her flesh; his knuckles, stroking her shoulder, drawing a line lightly over her collarbone. She nearly cried, the kiss alone was so very good....

She had never known this type of arousal. Aching in all parts of her, longing to touch and be touched...everywhere. He had her in his arms, on his lap. She was barely aware of moving, of being moved. The sense of being drugged with the pleasure of it was an encompassing one, overpowering all else, giving her the wonderful feel of perfect fantasy. This was it, the way of dreams. The need and the desire, the feeling that she would simply die if she could not have him. All of him.

It remained with her, all the magic, while he held her. While his lips touched hers again and again. Even when his eyes met hers, as dark and mysterious as the night, as probing, as curious, and still as seductive. She felt the palm of his hand flat against her breast; she felt his fingers curl around its weight, and his thumb as he sought her nipple through the knit of her dress and the lace of her bra. She buried her face against his neck, warmed by the intimacy, unable to meet his eyes yet instinctively grazing her teeth against his throat in response. It was a dream; it was magic. She was alive and explosive and soaring with desire and relief.

But then she felt his hand again. Against her stocking. A touch that made her shiver, a touch that wound the core of her tightly, tightly. She wanted him. She wanted his touch, an intimate touch, so badly. But even as his fingers roamed along her nyloned thigh, she felt the overwhelming panic begin to seize her.

She couldn't move at first.

She just felt his hand...his fingers. Higher, higher along her thigh. Fingers rimming the elastic of her panties. Light against her flesh again—bare flesh—as he slowly, seductively drew the nylons from her. She couldn't move. She could only feel the panic welling, growing, sweeping through her....

For God's sake, they were still in the car, she registered dimly. They were still merely playing.

Playing very, very intimately. The darkness seemed to surround her.

She stiffened and drew away from him abruptly.

“Alexi!”

He caught her hands. She stared into his eyes. At that very moment, she wanted the earth to open up and swallow her. She groaned.

“Alexi, shh—”

She couldn't understand that he meant to soothe her; she knew only that she had led him where he had gone and that she had then pulled away from him.

She tore at the door handle and wrenched it open. She was so awkward, caught upon his lap in the small bucket seat.

“Alexi!”

Sobbing, she stumbled over him. Her shoes were lost; her nylons were a tangle. She yanked them off and set out upon the sand, running. The night was dark, with only the moon and the stars to guide her, but it didn't matter; she didn't know where she was running to, only that she had to escape.

Pine and sand were beneath her feet. Bare feet. The beach was out there, through a trail of pines that both sheltered and mysteriously darkened. Ahead, she could hear the waves, so soft and gentle here. Waves of the mighty Atlantic.

She reached the beach, the sand soft and cool now beneath her feet. She looked up and saw the stars and the crescent of the moon, and she inhaled raggedly, desperately.

She gasped, startled, as arms swept around her. Rex's arms.

“Oh, don't!” she pleaded. She couldn't look at him. He turned her around anyway, pulling her to his chest, running his fingers down the length of her hair.

“Please, don't. I'm so sorry. I—” she said brokenly.

“Alexi, stop. Listen to me. Stop.”

She tried; she couldn't. She felt as if she sobbed raggedly for the longest time, yet she couldn't pull away from him; he held her firm. Then she tried again to tell him how embarrassed she was and how sorry, and he comforted her again. At last she inhaled a long, ragged breath and exhaled it and stood still.

Rex pulled off his shoes and socks and took her elbow. “Let's sit in the surf. And you can tell me about it.”

“No!”

“Yes. I deserve that much.”

“No, no, just forget about me, please. Believe that I didn't mean to do what I did—”

“Come on, Alexi.”

She had little choice. Before she knew it she was sitting in the surf beside him and the waves were rippling over their feet and he was as unconcerned about his dress trousers as she was about the hem of her knit. He didn't make her talk at first; he just held her against him, her head against his chest, his arms around her waist, his chin resting upon the top of her hair.

“John Vinto?” he asked.

She shuddered.

“What in God's name did he do to you?” Rex exploded.

She didn't want to start crying again—and she knew he wasn't going to let her go. When she started to talk, she discovered that she could do it almost impersonally, as if it had happened to someone else, as if it were history, long gone.

“I, uh, I knew a lot of what he was doing. Granted, it took me a while. The spouse is always the last to know it all. And I was so desperate to make my marriage work, you know. I had more or less run away from a great home to make it on my own. My parents hadn't wanted me to marry John. Gene didn't even approve of him. It was simply so hard to admit I'd made a mistake....”

Her voice trailed away for a moment, and then she shrugged. “I became ill during a makeup session one day and came home. John was in bed with another of his models. I think it was then that I realized he probably fell a little bit in love with every woman he photographed. It hurt, though. A lot. I didn't make any threats or accusations or anything. I just turned away. I tried to call for a cab. By then the girl was running out of the house only half-dressed, and John was slamming down the receiver. He said that we had to talk. I said there was nothing to talk about; nothing would change my mind. I wanted a divorce. He became irate. He kept telling me that I didn't want a divorce. I tried to call a cab again, and he told me that I couldn't live without him, I couldn't survive without him, that I wanted him—and that he'd prove it to me.” She stopped speaking, staring out at the ocean, wincing. It seemed so horrible even to say aloud. So humiliating. So degrading.

Rex didn't say anything. He tightened his arms around her. She wasn't even aware that she was speaking again.

“It was an awful fight. I realized what he meant, and I threw the phone at him and ran. He caught me and dragged me through half the house. He kept telling me that I was still his wife.” She lowered her head. “And, of course, I was his wife, and just the night before, I'd loved him. I just can't describe the terror of being powerless. Of having no control over being forced...”

“My God,” Rex whispered. Like quicksilver, he moved his fingers gently over her cheek. “To think that I accosted you like that on your first night at the house. Alexi, I'm so sorry. So, so sorry.” He was silent for a moment. She felt his kiss, tender and light, over her brow. She felt his arms around her, and she wasn't afraid; she felt secure.

“You kept working with him!” Rex said incredulously. “You should have taken the bastard to court.”

She shook her head. “Do you know how hard it is to prove spousal assault? I would probably have lost—and the publicity would have marked me for the rest of my life.” She sighed softly. “John didn't want the divorce. I did threaten to take him to court. That was the only reason he agreed to the divorce—no-fault and quick. I agreed to finish out the Helen of Troy campaign as long as he swore never to touch me or come near me again.”

“Alexi, Alexi...”

She felt the soft brush of his kiss again; she felt the strength of his arms. The night was cool with the breeze, but the water was warm as it washed over her feet.

“I'll kill him!” Rex swore suddenly, savagely. He was tense, as taut as piano wire. “I swear, I'll damned well kill him!”

Alexi twisted, startled by the vehemence, by the passion, by the caring in his tone. He was her willing champion, a fury in the night. Touched, she stroked his cheek, somewhat amazed that he could show such fierce concern.

He caught her fingers and kissed them, and she met the dark fires of his eyes. She inhaled sharply, feeling everything within her quicken. She wanted him so badly! So very badly. And she was so frightened that she would pull away again. He wouldn't want her. He was fierce against brutality and injustice, but he could not want her again. A neurotic who teased.

But he was smiling, and smiling so gently, while the starfire blazed in the depths of his night-dark eyes. He kissed her fingers again, reverently, then dropped them, and to her amazement he was up beside her, struggling out of his jacket and vest and then his shirt as she stared up at him, incredulous of his strange, abrupt behavior.

“Ever been skinny-dipping?” he demanded.

She flushed, staring at the ocean while he stripped. “Rex, you saw what just happened!”

His trousers landed in her lap, then his briefs. In the darkness she saw the bright flash of his muscled buttocks as he raced past her, splashing seawater all over her knit.

In seconds he had swum out into the surf. “Come on!”

“Didn't you ever watch
Jaws
?” she retorted.

“I promise you—no great white is in water this hot!”

“How about a small shark?”

“Minutely possible, but highly implausible. Come on! I dare you. I double-dare you.”

“Rex...”

“Alexi! Come on! The least you owe me is a bit of good ogling.”

She bit her lower lip, then recklessly stood. What else could happen? He knew the truth now. Her worst nightmare had already happened. Rex knew that she was basically asexual. And that she couldn't really help it—and why.

He'd sworn he'd kill John. She trembled suddenly, remembering his vehemence. It had just been a turn of phrase, she told herself. Rex didn't even know John.

“Come on!” Rex called to her.

She hesitated only a second longer. She pulled her knit over her shoulders, then hastened out of her lacy undergarments. Even in the darkness, she could see the rich grin that slashed across Rex's features where his head bobbed along with the waves.

This was crazy. It was so dark. But she plunged into the water anyway. It was cool with her whole body immersed. Alexi had never been skinny-dipping. It felt divine. She dived and swam, shivering as she broke the surface again.

She looked around. She couldn't see Rex anymore. His head wasn't above the water.

Then she felt him. Below her. Far below her. He tugged on her foot, and she gasped, laughing as her face almost slipped beneath the waves. But he didn't pull her down.

He explored her.

She felt his hands all along her legs. Felt his touch as he cradled her buttocks, felt his mouth grazing her belly, felt his kiss against her thighs....

She gasped, alive, electric, kinetic against the warmth of the Atlantic and the sheen of the moon. He had to breathe; surely the man had to breathe. He couldn't stay down forever....

But he could stay down a long time. A long, long time. Long enough to part her legs. Long enough to dive between them. To touch, to stroke, to glide...

He broke the surface, pulling her against him. She could barely stand against the sand and the water, the coil of sweetness was so tight within her.

“I'm going to drown,” she warned him.

“No,” he told her.

She barely knew the feel of his chest; she discovered it then: thick, dark hair a rich wet mat upon it. He let her touch him, then he swept his arms around her, and his kiss on her lips was demanding and thirsting and merciless, sweeping her away. She couldn't breathe; she couldn't protest. He broke from her, lifting her, and his mouth encircled her breast, drawing it in. She arched back, gasping, moaning.

“Rex...” she pleaded. “You know... I can't.”

He slid her wet, sleek length against his own so that their bodies rubbed together provocatively. He waited until their eyes met, and he smiled triumphantly. “Oh, but you can.”