Hard to Hold (True Romance) (21 page)

“Now who’s the one feeling randy?”

“I confess,” she said, nipping at his chin. “I never realized how arousing it is when you take care of me.”

“This would not be a surprise if you let me do it a little more often,” he chided.

She hummed, her lips vibrating against his throat in a way that ignited his bloodstream and had him rethinking the assessment that the tents were too close together. After all, most if not all the people on the tour were still sitting around the campfire, finishing up dinner under the stars.

If he and Anne decided to turn in early, he doubted anyone would notice.

Anne woke feeling as if she’d slept for a week rather than one night. The grogginess she’d battled for the past couple of days had lifted. Maybe her body had finally adjusted to the elevated altitude. Maybe it was Michael’s tender, loving care—not to mention his mad skills with making love to her in total, complete, yet intensely thorough, silence. Her body still ached pleasantly from all the places he’d touched, caressed, and pleasured. He was dead to the world. Before she grabbed fresh clothes and her toothbrush, she placed a soft kiss on his cheek, which caused his eyes to flutter open.

“What time is it?” he asked.

Sunlight glowed along the edges of the horizon, but not with enough brilliance for her to read her watch. “Early,” she answered. “Go back to sleep.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like a new woman,” she assured him, then slipped out of the tent.

For the first time since they’d landed in Cusco, she truly appreciated the majesty of the landscape around them. The birds cawing and whistling in the treetops fluttered in and out of the sky, grabbing breakfast and darting back to their nests. Just on the edge of camp, a creek rushed across the rocks. The frigid water she splashed on her face knocked any last vestiges of sleepiness right out of her system.

She was in paradise. A rustic paradise, to be sure, but despite the fact that tourists trekked through the area on a daily basis, this portion of the Incan empire, undiscovered by their Spanish conquerors, remained as close to untouched as possible after centuries. Even after she’d finished getting ready for the day, she sat on a boulder beside the creek and watched the sunrise.

“There you are,” Michael said, moving toward her with two cups of coffee. “Still feeling on top of the world?”

“You bet,” she said, squeezing her arms into the space between his laden hands. “When are we breaking camp?”

“Twenty minutes. Ready to go?”

“I’ll follow you anywhere.” She took the coffee and then extended her fist so they could bump.

The brief connection of their knuckles made them both laugh. She wasn’t sure what had inspired the ultra-hip gesture, but in so many ways, it represented all she and Mike had become. Casual. Comfortable. Fun. Despite her love of travel, she was pretty sure no other guy could have convinced her to climb a mountain. And she was entirely sure that she wouldn’t have enjoyed the experience with anyone but him.

Eighteen

F
OR THE NEXT TWO DAYS
, living at the top of the world wasn’t just a metaphor for spending time with Michael. They hiked treacherous trails, including one called Dead Woman’s Pass that Anne thought had earned its name. Passing out at the top had been a distinct possibility.

Once they reached the summit, their guide passed around capfuls of an unnamed liquor to celebrate. The porters set up camp and they ate dinner among the stars, slept in the clouds, and in the morning took photographs of the mossy rocks while learning improved techniques for breathing to deal with both the exertion of the trail and the ever-increasing altitude. By the time they reached Machu Picchu and spent the day exploring the amazingly untouched city, Anne decided that no other trip she’d taken equalled this one. Mostly because of Michael.

The pervasive silence of the ruins intensified the intimacy between them every time he held her hand, touched her shoulder, or whispered some obscure fact about the Incas in her ear. Despite his claim that his Tourette’s had made school difficult for him, he’d researched enough so that he knew just as much as the guides, if not more. In whispers, he shared a few facts about the Incas ideas about eroticism that she definitely hadn’t read about in any of her guidebooks.

They ended their adventure in Aguas Calientes, a pueblo that was not only the end of the road for hikers and provided train service back to Cusco, but also catered to tourists who wished to experience Machu Picchu without the arduous climb. They found a very nice public shower just outside the famous hot springs that had lent the village its name, then soaked in a heated pool for over an hour. Each moment washed away not only the grit and sweat from the climb, but also eased their sore muscles and battered feet.

Just underneath a bridge that shaded them from the sun and the prying eyes of too many fellow visitors, they found a semiprivate corner of a pool where they could be alone. They imbibed a few exotic drinks, soaked, and talked about what they would do once they returned to Lima, all while kissing and cuddling and making up for the past few days when their concentration had been on not falling off the mountain.

After sundown, the other tourists headed back to town either for dinner or to the ramshackle train station that would take them back to Cusco. Michael and Anne remained behind and as night descended, they were entirely alone, except for a few employees mopping up the water around the springs and cleaning up the bar area. Mike ordered one last round of pisco sours, made with a Peruvian liquor distilled from grapes. When the iced cup met Anne’s hand, the chill chased straight through her body.

“Last one,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m tipsy from the drinks or the heat. But this is heaven. Pure heaven.”

The heated water was a steaming stew of natural minerals that seemed to open her pores to the crisp night air and her mind to endless possibilities. She closed her eyes and basked in the quiet swirl of the water against her flesh and the heat inside her skin. When the current eddied against her, she knew Michael had finished his lap around the pool.

“We’re all alone,” he murmured.

Anticipation lit through her body like fireworks. She opened one eye first, then the other, to scan the area. “Well, look at that,” she said.

“Whatever should we do with all this privacy?”

Michael’s question, fraught with suggestion, sparked the nerve endings in her fingertips so that she simply had to touch him. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, chest, and arms, suddenly jealous that as a man, he could go topless without drawing a single stare. Her breasts, heavy with need, strained against her swimsuit. She knew exactly what she wanted to do now that they were entirely alone, but did she dare?

They were out in the open, even if they were hidden by the darkness.

But they were on vacation—one they’d worked hard for, both emotionally and physically. What was the worst that could happen?

And how could she think about the bad when the best was right in front of her?

“You could start by kissing me,” she suggested.

In a heartbeat, his lips were on hers. He tasted of fruit juices and liquor, his tongue chilled from the icy drink he’d set down on the side of the pool beside her head. Submerged to her shoulders, she opened her knees so that Michael could slide in close. He braced his hands on either side of her neck and as if he’d read her mind, surreptitiously undid the top of her suit.

His boldness was not only invigorating, it was contagious. She slid her fingers around his backside and moved his trunks so that she could hold him, stroke him, and then, when she could take no more of his long, languorous kisses that seemed to milk every ounce of sensual pleasure from her body, she guided him inside. He leaned back so that a swath of light from somewhere above streaked across his face and illuminated nothing but his eyes. The blue, so powerful and intense with passion, penetrated straight to her soul. She surrendered to the sensations around her and inside her until their climaxes peaked.

Soon, the sounds muted moments ago by their mutual desire registered in their brains. Voices. Someone was coming. Mike unobtrusively retied her swimsuit and readjusted his shorts. In the space of an instant, they were relaxing in the pool again as if nothing had happened.

But so much had happened—beyond the lovemaking, though as her passion receded, Anne couldn’t believe they’d done something so intimate in such a public place. Whenever Mike released his inner wild child, the results always exceeded her expectations.

He surprised her. Even after being together long enough to fall into routines, he managed to find ways to inject new life and laughter into their relationship. She had every confidence that he cared about her deeply. Maybe even loved her. He’d definitely shown he had, even if he hadn’t said the words.

But then again, neither had she.

As liberated and nontraditional as she was, there were just some things a woman didn’t say or do first. Just like their first official date, their first kiss, their first trip together—Mike had made the first move. Until he was ready to say it out loud, she’d simply have to keep her overwhelming emotions to herself.

Mike retrieved their drinks. The ice had melted, but the liquid was still cool, particularly against the heat steaming up from the spring—not to mention what they’d just done.

“That was close,” she said, sipping the potent concoction.

He waggled his eyebrows, unashamed. “That’s what made it so fun.”

“That’s the only thing?” she questioned.

He pulled her to him, wrapping his free hand around her waist. “Not by a long shot.”

Up until the moment they reached Arequipa, the trip to Peru had exceeded all of Mike’s expectations. Aside from the brief and mildly annoying bout of altitude sickness Anne had experienced during the ascent to Machu Picchu, Mike figured he’d remember this trip mostly for the breathtaking vistas, the triumph of mastering the physical challenge of the actual mountain climb, and, of course, making illicit love with Anne in a secluded yet entirely public place.

Unfortunately, the trip highlights would not be what he would remember most.

They’d had dinner in town. The restaurant, tucked into an old, light-pink Spanish colonial structure carved with volcanic rock, featured a lovely courtyard surrounded by tall palms that had swayed in the dry night breeze. They’d enjoyed a delicious ceviche, one of Peru’s national dishes and one of Mike’s favorite foods. Then, about an hour after they reached the hotel, Michael wasn’t so fond of the seafood dish anymore. The way down had definitely been more enjoyable than the way back up.

There wasn’t much he wanted to forget about Peru, but food poisoning was at the top of his list.

Sluggish and fighting cramps in his lower abdomen, Mike was only vaguely aware of Anne leaving the room an hour or so after he got sick. He unloaded the last of his dinner in two separate trips to the toilet bowl, glad that the woman he cared about was not around to hear him heaving in porcelain stereo. He’d just climbed back into bed when he heard the door open and she slid back into the room holding a couple of green bottles that clinked against each other as she locked the door.

“Hey,” she said, her voice a reverential whisper. “I got you some ginger ale.”

She used the bottom of her T-shirt to protect her hand while she twisted open the top. She dug into her pocket and retrieved a paper-covered straw, which she inserted into the bottle. She dropped to her knees beside the bed and smoothed the hair away from his sweaty forehead.

“Think you can take a sip?”

For her, he’d do anything.

The liquid enhanced the dry, cracked feeling of his throat, but even without her saying so, he knew the ginger would help settle his stomach. How many times in his childhood had his mother prescribed the same? That Anne knew this home remedy surprised him a little. She was a strong woman, capable and independent and well-traveled and beautiful. But he’d never pegged her for nurturing, too.

He managed a few sips before his lids, which he’d strained to keep open, fell tight over his eyes. He needed sleep. In all of their hikes up and down the Andes trails, he’d never experienced exhaustion like this. And yet, he doubted he’d sleep a wink until whatever microorganism he’d taken into his body at dinner had completely left his system.

Hot and sweaty, he tore away the covers and tried to concentrate on the nearly imperceptible breeze floating down from the lazy ceiling fan twirling above the bed. His eyes flew open when he felt a soft, cool sensation on his forehead.

“Sh,” Anne said. “You’re burning up. This will cool you down. Just relax.”

In a haze, he surrendered, relaxing as she ran the damp cloth over his face, down his neck and throat, then across his chest and arms.

“You should sleep,” he said, his voice raspy.

The only light in the room came from the tiny bathroom. The golden glow spilled across Anne’s unbrushed hair and oversize nightshirt, illuminating her as if she were an angel straight out of Botticelli. She was ringing out the towel inside the ice bucket, which she’d filled with cool, clean water.