Cruising the Strip (2 page)

“Thank you.” I avoided his offered arm while I watched Byrne Ambrose sign autographs and pose for photos and generally charm the pants off her audience. A smiling, gushing, absolutely thrilled group of devoted readers, all of whom just happened to have been
my
readers first. It didn’t help that in addition to being charming, Byrne was a walking heart palpitation. Tall, slender, and dark-haired with pale skin and piercing dark eyes. A full, sensuous lower lip and a mouth made for kissing. Not that I was ever one to underestimate my own powers of allure, I nevertheless knew that my blond hair and blue eyes gave me a somewhat girl next door appeal. A critic had once compared our writing to our physical appearances. Her observation that my romances glowed with sweet sensuality while Byrne’s simmered with dark eroticism somehow managed to intimate that I was unadventurous in bed while Byrne set the sheets afire. Foolish to think that the surface reflects the depths of anything, and even more foolish of me to be bothered by a stranger’s assessment. Probably if she hadn’t been comparing me to Byrne…

I heard the click and whir of a camera nearby and realized I was staring at the object of my supreme annoyance. Adjusting my smile, I did the only thing I could. I walked directly across the lobby to Byrne.

“How good to see you again, Byrne,” I said, holding out my hand.

Byrne looked up slowly from the book she had been signing, her eyes even darker than I remembered. For an instant I saw a spark of surprise, or perhaps pleasure, before her handsome features settled into a practiced, gracious expression. She took my hand, and in true Byrne Ambrose fashion, raised it to her lips. More cameras flashed and whirred.

“Amelia. Always a pleasure.”

“Isn’t it just.” Her voice, rich and smooth as dark chocolate, rippled through me, and I forced myself not to react to the undeniable wisps of pleasure stirred by the soft glide of her mouth on my skin. I swear some of the women standing nearby almost swooned. Carefully, I withdrew my hand. “I understood you were touring in England. How fortunate you could make it for the conference.”

“When I heard you’d be here, how could I not?”

Easily,
I thought, trying not to grind my teeth.
You could have stayed in Europe so that for once, we didn’t have to share headliner status.
Not only was I ten years older, I’d been writing almost twenty years longer than she had when she burst onto the scene two years earlier with her unique and, unfortunately, very skillful blend of simmering sex combined with soaring romantic passion. She was very good, and I wasn’t too small to admit that. Nevertheless, being constantly compared to her as if only one of us was really capable of writing powerful romance wore on my nerves. And worse, every time I saw her, I was more drawn to her.

“You’re absolutely right,” I said lightly. “What fun would it be without the two of us here?”

“No fun at all.”

Though her tone was surprisingly serious, I saw sardonic amusement dance across her damnably handsome face before I moved a few feet away to sign some autographs of my own. Even as I tended to business, I could hear her laughter in the background, and every note shimmered through me as if she were breathing her pleasure into my ear.

After thirty minutes of chatting up the crowd, I pleaded travel fatigue and escaped to my suite. I
was
tired. I’d just finished my latest novel barely on deadline before packing and flying all day to get here for the opening of the National Romance Writers conference in the morning. As soon as I closed the door behind me, I kicked off my heels and stripped out of my traveling ensemble on the way to the bathroom. A long, hot shower eased some of the aches and weariness, and by the time I’d finished, I was hungry. I unpacked my silk robe, because I never cared much for the terrycloth ones provided even in the best of hotels, and went to investigate the welcome tray of hors d’oeuvres sitting in the center of the coffee table in the lounge area of the suite. I don’t know how I missed the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket by the sofa when I came in, either. That was certainly a nice amenity. The complementary appetizers included an assortment of fresh fruit, cheese, crackers, and even a generous serving of caviar in an iced crystal goblet. Hmm, a
very
nice welcoming gift. Idly, I lifted the card and for some reason read it, even though I knew the bounty had been left as a courtesy by the hotel.

Of course, I was wrong.

Amelia, I’m so happy you’re here. I hope we have a moment to compare notes on romance. Byrne

I hated the little skip in my heart when I saw her name. She had beautiful handwriting too, very much like her. Bold and dashing. Oh, it was so hard not to like her. I even liked her books, damn her. With a sigh, I removed the gold foil from around the mouth of the champagne bottle. Before I had a chance to remove the wire basket securing the cork, the doorbell rang. I set the champagne on the coffee table and went to answer. Expecting housekeeping, I peered through the security lens. Wrong again.

“Byrne?” I released the latch and opened the door before I remembered I was barefoot and braless and wearing a short silk robe. Since Byrne’s eyebrows rose infinitesimally as her glance swept over me, I knew it was already too late. She’d taken in the whole of me, which meant she also noticed my unabashedly erect nipples.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Byrne said in that bedroom voice, “but these conferences are always so hectic and we so very rarely have a chance to talk.” She smiled somewhat apologetically. “But I see this is a bad time. Perhaps we could—”

“No,” I said quickly, opening the door wider and surprising us both. “Come in. Please. I was just about to break out the lovely champagne you sent. Won’t you join me?”

“How can I refuse?” Byrne sat beside me on the pale green damask sofa and reached for the champagne. “Shall I finish opening it?”

“Yes, please.” I turned slightly to face her and curled my legs beneath me, very aware that I was nearly naked next to a very sexy woman. Whom I loathed. Byrne had changed into slacks and an open collar dark blue linen shirt, and she looked carelessly delicious. “Crackers?”

“I’m sorry?” Byrne handed me a flute of champagne.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, flustered for no reason that I could imagine.

Byrne glanced at the very eye-catching tray, then back at me. “Does craving your company count?”

“That’s an excellent line,” I said, hoping to hide my ridiculous thrill of pleasure. Clearly, she had some agenda that would soon become clear.

“It’s the truth.” Byrne sipped her champagne and allowed me to look into her eyes, eyes that were completely devoid of any subterfuge. “I’ve always been a huge fan of your work, and I’ve never had a chance to tell you that.”

I made a demurring noise and chided myself for being flattered.

“No, I’m serious. I’ve been coming to your readings and panel sessions for years, but of course, you never noticed me. Why would you, with so many readers clamoring for your attention?”

Oh, I would have noticed you in the audience. There aren’t very many women who stop my heart just at the sight of them.

“And then,” Byrne went on, “when my books came out, everything happened so fast, I’ve never had a chance to really talk to you.”

“That happens when you’re an overnight sensation.” I discovered my champagne glass was empty and put it down.

Byrne finished hers and set her glass aside. She leaned closer, her voice dropping lower. “No one will ever write about love and passion the way you do. Your work always excites me.”

I felt myself flush and was helpless to stop it. “One of us should get pen and paper and write this down before we lose a perfectly good seduction scene.”

“Is that what this is?”

Embarrassed that I had revealed the attraction I had been denying for months, I tried to laugh it off. “Tell me you haven’t noticed this setting is perfect for…”

Byrne leaned close. “This?”

And she kissed me.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I registered that the kiss was not in the least bit diffident or uncertain, but neither was it arrogant. It was simply a kiss, a wonderful kiss, bestowed by a woman who clearly wanted to kiss me, if the deep murmur of pleasure accompanying the glide of her warm mouth over mine was any indication. Byrne Ambrose, my hated rival…well, of course, not hated…more like
annoying
rival,
wanted
to kiss me? And God, could she kiss. She cupped my face in her soft, warm palm and thoroughly explored my mouth with a gentle but insistent tongue. I could feel her body hovering just millimeters away from mine, but she didn’t push for more contact. Instead, she allowed my breasts, suddenly tense with the surge of arousal rushing through me, to lift and brush against her chest. That whisper of contact sent a sliver of excitement piercing through the core of me.

“Oh my God, you can definitely practice what you preach,” I gasped, pulling back, trying to get my bearings. What was she doing? For one horrifying second I contemplated this could be some kind of publicity stunt, but unless a winged photographer was hovering twenty stories above ground like a giant Tinker Bell, there was no way anyone could see us. “What…”

“Do you know,” Byrne said breathlessly.
Breathlessly?
“I really love your love scenes.”

As she spoke, she skimmed her fingers up and down my arms, inside the silk robe. My skin flamed as if I’d been out in the sun for hours, and to my amazement, I found myself unbuttoning her shirt, my fingers flying with a will of their own. “I don’t care if you hate my books,” I whispered, “if you kiss me like that again.”

And she did. Only this time, she eased me back on the sofa and pulled the sash on my robe, exposing me. She leaned halfway against me, her hip turned sideways between my legs, her upper body supported with one arm along the back of the sofa. She kissed me until my head was spinning, even though I was lying down. I pushed inside her shirt and discovered skin, only skin. Smooth, slightly damp, hot skin. She groaned as I held her small breasts in my hands, rolling her firm nipples under the pads of my thumbs. I thought of the love scenes
she
had written, committing them to memory while telling myself I simply needed to know what the competition was offering. But her words revealed her passion so bravely for all to see, I couldn’t forget the images she created. Her words had taught me what she needed, what she sought, what she hoped for from a moment like this, and I gently pushed her away. When she drew back, uncertain, I softened my apparent rejection with a brief caress to her cheek.

“Come to bed, Byrne.”

She nodded, her eyes glimmering, her pale pale skin flushed with desire. I pushed the shirt down her shoulders and she left it behind on the sofa. As we crossed into the bedroom, she unbuckled her belt and unzipped her slacks, shedding them by the bedside while I dropped my robe on a chair. When we came together beneath the cool, pristine sheets, we were both naked. When she would have moved above me, I shook my head and pressed my palms to her shoulders.

“Lie back,” I murmured as I knelt between her thighs. For a second I thought she might refuse, because I could tell it wasn’t what she expected. I caressed her thighs and kissed the base of her stomach. “Please. I know you want this. So do I.”

With a quiet groan, she relaxed beneath me. “I think about you…sometimes…when I’m writing.”

“Think about me now. How much I want you.”

I gently touched my tongue to her clitoris. She was hard. Her legs clenched and she pulsed against my lips. I love the taste of a woman, sultry and rich. A pleasure so poignant, yet so fleeting, I always want to linger. As I took her slowly, learning all her tender places, she writhed beneath me, her breath growing shorter and more labored. She didn’t ask for what she so clearly needed, and I adored her for her unselfishness. Only a woman would sacrifice her own pleasure for that of another. I kissed her where her heart beat beneath my lips and pulled her into the heat of my mouth, sucking as she grew to fill me.

“I’m going to come,” she whispered, a warning and a question. Her fingers trembled in my hair.

I reached up and placed my palm over her heart where it pounded beneath her sleek body. I felt her orgasm tremble through her limbs, hammering inside her chest, beating inside my mouth. She was beauty, she was grace, she was every perfect word I had ever hoped to write.

She cried out softly as she came, and when her cries had died away, I kissed her one last time before stretching out beside her. Her eyes were soft, her smile satisfied. Wordlessly, she dipped her head and took my breast into her mouth. I wasn’t as unselfish as she. I urged her to hurry, to take me, to make me come. She wrote her desire for me on my body, with the bold strokes of her hands and her lips and her tongue. When she slid her fingers inside me, I closed around her with the fierceness of possession, wanting to own the passion she exposed so freely in the pages of her books. I had always known her power, now I felt it. Her knuckles, round and strong, stretched me, opened me, and I welcomed her.

“More,” I asked, uncertain my words had enough strength to reach her. But she heard. I didn’t feel her turn her hand, I didn’t feel her mold her flesh to my flesh, but I felt her in the core of me, strong and hot and reverent. She held still and let me move around her, rocking infinitesimally on her smooth, hot fist. I reached blindly for her other hand and when I found it, pressed her fingers to my clitoris.