He treated her to a spoonful of rum-flavored creme brulee; it left a small dab on her lower lip.
“Miss, I’m afraid you’ve got some dessert on that mouth,” he said, leaning close.
“Do I, now.” She greeted his lips with hers.
*
They walked hand in hand under a broad hotel umbrella to their cottage. His hand shook a little as he inserted the key in the lock.
Then they were inside. He kept his eyes on her as his hand sought the switch to turn out the lights.
The burning coals in the fireplace were the only illumination. They had made the room hot. She stood unmoving, her back to him, a curving silhouette against the glowing rectangle.
He reached around from behind her and undid the clasp at her throat that held her short fur jacket. It slid to the floor; he left his palm moving over her breasts. Intoxicated by her scent, he leaned down and his lips traced the curve of her bare shoulder to the back of her neck with light kisses. She drew in a sharp breath and he felt her shiver. Still behind her, he pulled her head around and met her open mouth.
Then she was crushed against him, her breasts squeezed to his chest, her hands pushing the jacket of his tux from his shoulders. He let it fall. One hand under her, his other tight around her back, he lifted her against his body. In response, she hooked a leg around him. Somehow he carried her that way up the stairs, to the waiting canopy bed.
*
Annie did not know how many times they made love that night. It was beyond her experience, beyond even her fantasies. She could not believe his insatiability, or her own. It had begun as desire, runaway desire. But it descended into ruthless need-then into sheer savagery, into a dark place where pain and pleasure lost any distinction.
A place where there no longer was any distinction between the two of them.
Somewhere in the night, hours later, as they once again lay gasping and trembling, as she stroked the head of thick tangled hair lying heavily on her breasts, she knew that their passion at last was spent. She was beyond exhaustion; she was in physical pain from their excesses. She felt his warm breath against her belly, his big hand resting on her thigh. His breath slowed. She smiled. He was finally falling asleep.
Then he stirred. Raised his head, looked at her. In the dying light of the fire, his eyes seemed to be blazing coals, too.
He slid up her body, resting his face on the pillow next to hers. His hands moved up and down her skin, owning her. She shivered under his touch.
“My God, Dylan, I can’t. Not again.” She moved his hand away. “No!”
He grabbed the back of her hair. Pressed his lips into light contact with hers. His eyes, so close, bore into hers.
“You listen to me, Annie Woods. The one word that’s forbidden when we’re in bed is ‘no.’”
She felt the power in his arms, in the thighs against hers. Impossibly, she found herself stirring once again.
“Tell me something, Annie Woods,” he continued, his voice hoarse. “Is there anything you’ve ever imagined doing in bed with a man, that you’ve never gotten around to doing?”
She swallowed, felt her lips part against his.
“Yes.”
*
He heard the phone purring. He opened his eyes, finding himself entangled with her. Then hers blinked open, too. She looked at him and smiled, said “mmmmm,” then closed them once more.
The phone hummed again. He sighed and pushed himself away from her. The covers fell back, revealing her body to him for the first time in full light. His breath caught in his throat.
His hand groped for the phone as he drank in the sight of her. “Yes?” he said, never taking his eyes off her.
“Hello, Mr. Hunter. Sorry if I’m bothering you, sir. It’s ten-thirty. Would you be joining us for breakfast this morning in the dining room? We stop serving at eleven.”
He stared at the swell of her breasts, the smooth, gentle curves of her belly and hips, the impossibly long legs. “No, I don’t think so. Thank you. Is it possible to have a breakfast sent to our cottage?”
“Yes, sir. All day.”
“That’s great. I’ll call in an order later.”
He slid back under the covers, drew her close. Felt the silken warmth of her flesh against his. He wrapped his arms and legs around hers.
Smiled and closed his eyes.
*
He felt something tickling his leg and woke up.
She was sitting upright in the bed, naked in the soft light, like a pale goddess. Her finger was tracing the scar on his thigh.
“Hi, you,” he said. “Good morning.”
She looked at him. “Hi, you. But it’s afternoon.”
They held each other’s eyes, remembering.
“Wow,” he said.
She began to giggle. “You creep. Do you have any idea how sore I am?”
He sat up, grinning. “Aw, the poor baby. Should I kiss it and make it better?”
She blushed and threw a pillow at him. He grabbed her and she squealed as he wrestled her back onto the thick down comforter. He held her close and they searched each other’s eyes and he kissed her, long and gently.
She giggled again. “Down, boy.”
“But you inspire me.”
“ Please, Dylan. I just couldn’t. Besides, I’m starved.”
He sighed. “Okay. I’ll order room service. Besides, I guess I’ve gotten my money’s worth from last night’s dinner.”
“You bastard,” she laughed, pounding his shoulder with her fist. Then, looking serious, she held his face between her hands. “Dylan?”
“Mmmm.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way. You’ve got a gorgeous body. But the scars. Do you mind telling me what happened?”
He buried his face against her throat. Felt its pulse against his lips.
“Automobile accident. Three years ago. Truck crossed the center line. I swerved, but he clipped me and sent me over the guard rail. My car flipped a few times. I was pretty badly carved up.”
He felt her forefinger on his scalp, tracking the thin scar down and along his jawline. “My face was especially bad. The door caved in and mashed it pretty good. It took the doctors weeks to put it back together.”
“They did a great job. I love this face.”
“I’m glad. It took me a while to get used to the new me.”
“You didn’t look like this before?”
“Somebody once told me I used to look like Tom Hanks.”
“Well, now you look a lot like Clive Owen.”
“Who’s Clive Owen?”
She kissed his cheek. “A man who looks a lot better than Tom Hanks.”
*
She lay back against him in the tub, her head resting on his chest. The hot, powerful jets pounded at them, raising coils of steam into the air. He could smell the scented candles positioned around them. He tilted his head back, noticing for the first time that the ceiling of the luxurious bathroom was composed of mirrored tiles. Using his legs, he lifted her body slightly out of the water.
“What are you doing?” she said above the churning noise of the jets. “I’m getting cold.”
He pointed toward the ceiling. “Look at us.”
In the shimmering candlelight, the steam drifted like fog across their reflected bodies, alternately hiding and revealing.
“Oh, great. I’ve gotten myself involved with a voyeur.”
“No jury of men would convict me.” In the mirrored surface, he watched his own dark hand slide slowly over the naked, glistening curves of her torso. “I feel like Michelangelo.”
She was quiet for a moment. “We are beautiful together, aren’t we.”
He squeezed her, then closed his eyes, letting their bodies relax and drift as one in the roiling water. He tried to push from his mind all thoughts of his past and his future. He tried to hold onto nothing but this moment of magic.
But the warning voice was whispering.
NINETEEN
Rockville, Maryland
Thursday, September 25, 1:02 p.m.
When the blond man with the mustache and sunglasses entered the crowded clubhouse and looked around, Barton Ames figured that it had to be the guy. He pushed away from the bar and carried his Scotch over to meet him.