Fairytale (28 page)

She was in trouble. In so much trouble she
couldn’t find her way out. And...and she needed him.

Adam flung back the covers, sitting up in the
bed. He gripped his pillow in his fists and he shook it the way he
felt like shaking her when she refused to talk to him. Damn, damn,
damn!

He wanted her.

Slamming himself out of bed, he paced the
floor. Plush carpeting cushioning his bare feet. Warm summer air
greeting his naked flesh. He was hard, and she wasn’t even in the
room. He was hot and he was lonely for her soft, silken body. For
her wet lips and for those little sounds she made down deep in her
throat when he...

Damn!

Five steps to the French doors. He stopped
there only briefly, then turned on his heel. Twelve steps past the
foot of the bed, to the closed door that led to the hallway. And he
stopped there a little longer. A second longer. Long enough for his
hand to touch the doorknob. Long enough for him to curse himself
for being an idiot.

He turned again. Ten steps to the bathroom
door, four through it, and a cold shower was within reach. It was
also the last thing he wanted.

He
wanted
Brigit.

How many steps, he wondered, were there
between his room and hers? Only a few. And he’d be there, with her.
He could have her.

Keep your distance, you idiot! You’re walking
right into heartbreak!

She was longing for him, aching for him,
right now. Calling to him, somehow. He could feel her calling out
to him, though he couldn’t hear her. A psychic lure tugged at him.
Teased him. Tempted him. Its touch was physical, palpable.
Something very real, dammit, had twined around him and pulled
tight, so that he felt like a fish caught in a net. And he didn’t
bother struggling because he thought it might kill him. The net
pulled tight, so there was no chance of escape, and then it drew
him across that soft carpet. It drew him right up to his bedroom
door.

Through it.

He was hauled in by this mental net, and it
was against his will. Against everything he knew to be practical
and smart and necessary. She would hurt him. Again. She would lie
to him, and she would leave him. And yet he walked a little faster,
instead of fighting the current that carried him through the hall.
He twisted the doorknob, flung her bedroom door open, and stepped
inside. And then he stood there, naked and aroused, just inside her
bedroom. And she was on the floor, by her bed. Her legs curled
underneath her, tears scalding her cheeks.

She looked up, met his eyes. “Adam...”

“I didn’t want to come in here,” he
whispered, and his voice sounded ragged and broken. And even as he
said it he was dropping to his knees, clasping her shoulders,
running his fingertips over her skin.

“I was wishing for you, Adam.”

“I heard you,” he said, and he covered her
mouth with his, pushed his tongue inside, thrust deep. His
breathing was ragged and his hands were pushing the thin straps of
the camisole down from her shoulders.

Her hands came around him, and her fingers
dove into his hair. She leaned back, opened her mouth wider, and he
devoured her, unable to help himself. He moved his mouth sideways,
over her face, and down her neck. He tugged the camisole lower, and
tasted her breast. The rounded, firm flesh, and then the succulent
center. He sucked on her nipple until he felt it throbbing under
his tongue. And then he moved to the other side.

He’d pressed her onto her back now. He was
pulling the camisole down with him as he moved lower over her body,
taking huge bites of her waist, gnawing and licking his way over
her abdomen as she clawed and tore at his hair. She twisted,
panted, cried, trembled. He had to know her, all of her. He had to
experience every sensation, every nuance, every inch of her. It was
a compulsion. An obsession. A perversion, maybe, or perhaps an
addiction to that honeyed flavor. He kissed a wet trail over her
thighs. He lapped a path down the backs of her calves, tasting the
hollows behind her knees. He traced the shapes of her ankles with
his tongue, and then kissed the very soles of her small feet, and
every toe, before working his way back up again. Higher, until he
shoved her legs wider and made his way to the very heart of
her.

“Do you want it?” he demanded, blowing hot
breath on her, watching her quiver.

“Yesss...”

He pulled her apart, and drove his tongue
into the feast that awaited him. She tasted so good. Salt and
feminine spice. And that honey. That sweetness that belonged to her
alone. And he craved more of her, more than he ever could have. He
couldn’t tell her that, couldn’t give words to a need so fierce, so
powerful. So he used his mouth to show her. And his tongue and his
teeth. Until she screamed his name at the top of her voice, clawing
at his shoulders as her hips thumped the floor in convulsive
motions.

He crawled back up her body. All the way up
her body. He straddled her chest. And he didn’t have to tell her.
She lifted her head, staring at the erection in front of her with
passion glazed eyes. And then she took it into her mouth. Adam
lifted his hips. He caught her head in his hands, and he moved
against the delicious suction. Her hands crawled around to cup his
backside, and then her nails sank into his flesh and she took more
of him. Deeper and faster and harder. Until he was the one
screaming in sweet agony, spilling his passion into her, watching
her take it, savor it.

And when he wanted to collapse on top of her,
he couldn’t. Because he needed more.
He needed more.
There
would never be enough. So he sank sideways, and he turned so he was
on his back beside her. He wrapped his arms tight around her body
and pulled her on top of him. She settled herself over him, lowered
herself slowly, closing her eyes as she did. She remained upright,
and when she opened her eyes again, it was to stare straight down
into his. And he saw the wildness in her eyes. The part of her he’d
sensed her struggling against so often. It was loose now. And
dammit, he was glad. Slowly, she moved lower. Too slowly. He
captured her hips in his hands, and then pulled her down fast and
hard so he impaled her. Her mouth opened in a silent groan. Her
head fell backward and her eyes closed.

His hands at the small of her back pulled her
forward though, and then down to him, so he could kiss her and
taste her mouth as he made love to her. And he didn’t want it to
end. Not ever. And it didn’t matter that she was lying to him, or
that she was going to leave him in the end. Because there was
something bigger than both of them, something that seemed to be
pushing them together. A force neither of them could understand,
let alone overcome. He couldn’t resist her. He could try. He could
hate her, for all it mattered. He’d still have to be with her like
this.

Worst part was, he didn’t hate her. Not at
all.

She held him inside her, and she moved with
him. His tongue trapped in her mouth and his body held tightly
inside her body. And when she drew the release from him this time,
he felt an emptying of his very soul, flowing into hers. Mating
with it, entwining in a knot that could only be eternal.

God, she owned him now. What the hell hope
was there for him after lovemaking like this? He’d sold his soul,
and Brigit was the new owner. And the deed she held was one he’d
handed over without hesitation. Her hold on him was greater than
anyone’s had ever been. Greater than Sandra’s. Greater even than
that of his own father when he’d been just a child. Brigit owned
him, because he’d surrendered his heart and soul. He’d shared
everything with her, unable to do otherwise. Simply sitting there
like a duck at a carnival game, waiting for her to do her worst.
Praying she’d have mercy. Knowing she wouldn’t...
couldn’t.
Because the choice wasn’t hers.

When she left him, when she took the blade
that fate had forced into her hands, and drove it straight through
his heart, it was going to be the killing stroke. He’d given her
too much of himself, now. There was no getting it back. She’d
destroy him. She’d utterly destroy him.

And he’d let her.

He was intense, and energetic, but not rough.
He might have intended to be. He might even have wanted to be. But
he couldn’t. It wasn’t in his gentle soul to be less than tender
with her, though his tenderness was ablaze with passion. It stirred
something in Brigit’s heart to know she was capable of stirring so
much reaction in him. So much need. It seemed a miracle to her that
he would come to her even though he didn’t want to.

But it was no miracle. It was magic. And she
felt terribly guilty for using it on him. Moreover, she was afraid
she wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to do it again.

Poor Adam. So sure she was dishonest, so sure
she was no good, and yet unable to stay away. She should leave
here. That would end his misery. She should go away and just let
him alone.

But she couldn’t. If she did, the man she
loved—the other one—would die.

She stirred. They’d been lying in silence for
a long time, he on his back beneath her. She collapsed atop him.
Naked. Without covers to hide under. Slowly, though, the love
languor faded, and she became aware of how still he was. Not
relaxed stillness, either. She felt the tension in every bit of
him. He lay stiff, and his arms were on the floor at his sides,
rather than around her as they had been.

Slowly she lifted her upper body, so she
could look down into his face. But the expression he wore was one
she’d rather not have seen. Self-disgust. Regret. Despondency. All
so clear in his eyes. Eyes she’d always been able to read.

She shook her head slowly. What could she
say? She couldn’t assure the poor man that he’d been wrong about
her, that she was honest and faithful and true. She wasn’t. She was
exactly what he thought she was. A liar. A thief.

She lowered her chin in shame and slid off
him, ending on her knees beside him. She watched as he sat up and
got to his feet. He looked down at her once, closed his eyes as if
in horrible pain, and then he left her. Alone. To face the night
and her fears alone. Just as she’d had to face them before. Their
passion had been a fire in the night. But all that remained now
were ashes.

She showered quickly before crawling into the
bed, pulling the covers over her head, and burying herself there.
She only wished she’d never have to emerge. But she did.
Eventually. And when she did, Adam was gone.

***

Adam didn’t go to the university that
morning. Instead, he made a call, early, while Brigit was still
sound asleep. He’d made sure of that before calling. He’d crept
along the deck outside her bedroom, and peered in through the
French doors, like a burglar in his own home, and he’d seen her.
Lying naked on the bed, swathed in white fabric. With her raven
curls spread around her and her coal-black lashes resting gently on
her cheeks. The contrast of honey-smooth skin, and brilliantly
white sheets, and her pitch-black hair, was magical. She looked
more like an angel than ever. A dark angel. A passionate angel. An
angel who could love a man to the brink of madness.

La belle dame sans merci.

It had been a long time before he’d been able
to tear his gaze from her, there, sleeping. Spellbinding.

Interesting choice of words, he thought now.
He felt as if
he
were under a spell, caught in a magical web
too sticky to allow him to get free. She’d
made
him come to
her last night. He’d wanted to stay away, but she’d worked some
kind of magic on him, And he had the feeling she knew it. She’d
admitted it, when he’d gone to her. “I was wishing for you, Adam.”
Worst of all, he wasn’t even sure he minded all that much.
Self-denial wasn’t so painful if you were given no choice in the
matter.

No matter what he believed about Brigit, he
couldn’t stop himself from wanting her. From...from
liking
her. More than that. Caring about her. And more than
that,
too, though he refused to give a name to what else he felt. No
matter how conniving he believed her to be, he couldn’t help
enjoying her. Thinking about her when he wasn’t with her. Reveling
in her company when he was. And worrying about her involvement with
a murderer like Zaslow.

Maybe there was still some part of his mind
that wasn’t convinced of her intentions. Maybe after today, that
would change. Because once he saw what she was doing with his own
two eyes, he couldn’t doubt any longer. Could he?

He didn’t leave. Instead, he drove his car a
short distance away from the house, and walked back. And then he
stationed himself just beyond the bank of windows in the study, and
he waited, and he watched.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Brigit came into the room, lugging more
equipment than a woman of her slight build ought to be able to
manage. He peered around the comer from outside, frowning hard as
she dumped everything on the floor. She spread drop cloths over the
carpeting, and set a tripod in their center. She disappeared again,
only to return with tubes and brushes and a palette. And then once
more to come back with the stool from the kitchen. She wore stirrup
pants and an oversized, paint-smattered white smock.

Her duplicity was like a blow. It hurt,
though it shouldn’t. He should have been prepared. He was only
seeing what he’d known he was going to see.

He continued watching, unobserved.

Brigit headed upstairs one more time, and
this time she returned with the canvas. She took her time with it,
holding it with the flats of her fingers to its very edges. She set
it on the tripod with extreme care. And then she stood poised over
it for a time, gnawing her lower lip as she eyed it critically.