Hideaway (8 page)

“I
have
to,” she interrupted.

Her hands were shaking as she attempted to unbutton her blouse and Martin pushed them gently aside and helped her undress. Her
blouse, matching skirt and underwear lay on the sand beside his clothes. He kissed her deeply then swung her up his arms and walked across the pristine white sand and into the warm water. They rode the waves and splashed like little children as the sun dropped below the horizon and stars lit up the tropical sky like diamond dust.

Parris floated over to Martin and held onto his neck. “I’m turning into a raisin,” she laughed, breathing heavily.

He nibbled at her neck. “I love raisins.”

She giggled like a little girl, but all of the teasing stopped when his mouth covered a breast. She gasped and buried her face against his shoulder.

“I think we’d better go back,” he mumbled against the soft mound of flesh.

“Please,” Parris pleaded, succumbing to the sensual spell Martin had spun.

M
artin waited until their third night in Ocho Rios to reveal the depth of his feelings for Parris. He hadn’t made love to her because he knew she was never responsive after their having made love.

He sat up in bed, his back pressed against the elaborately carved headboard, holding her as she lay on his chest between his outstretched legs, his large hands caressing the silken skin over her flat belly.

“Are you enjoying your vacation?” he asked softly.

“It’s been perfect,” Parris replied, not opening her eyes.

“Open your eyes.” Martin held Parris’s gaze. “I want you to be my wife.”

His voice, warm, soft and silky, chilled her to the bone. Her delicate jaw dropped slightly. “You’re not asking me to marry you?”

“I am.” He cradled her face between his palms. “I’m going to ask a lot of things of you. I want you to live with me, marry me, decorate our home and have my children. These are things I’ve never asked of another woman, Parris.”

Parris’s eyes widened in surprise before she closed them tightly. “No,” she replied, trying to shake her head.

Martin tightened his hold on her head. “I love you.”

“Don’t!”

“Don’t tell me how to feel, Parris.” Anger was evident in his voice. “Look at me,” he ordered. Her lids fluttered up. “I can’t help the way I feel about you.” His voice was quieter, softer. “I didn’t plan to fall in love with you, but I did. This is all so very new to me, darling. All I know is that I want you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Parris masked inner turmoil with deceptive calmness. “I can’t give you what you want, Martin.” There was no way she could marry him. She did not want a repeat of her short-lived marriage to Owen.

She had fallen in love with Owen and agreed to marry him, and despite Owen’s claim that he wanted to wait to marry her before he made love to her she loved him blindly. Everything was so perfect until their wedding night.

Martin Diaz Cole was everything Owen Lawson wasn’t. He was secure and virile. Yet there was an unknown component in Martin’s personality that frightened her. An unspoken peculiar characteristic which said that if she married him her life would be inexorably changed forever.

“What can you give me?” he questioned, successfully concealing his disappointment.

“I will live with you and decorate your home.”

Dammit
, he raged inwardly. He could get any woman to live with him and contract with any design firm to decorate his home. But what he wanted most from Parris she withheld.

He had to accept what she was willing to give him—for now.

His gaze dropped from her eyes to her shoulders and finally to her full breasts pressed to his chest. He was certain she could feel the runaway beating of his heart.

“Do you love me, Parris?”

Martin’s voice was so soft that Parris barely heard his query. She studied his lean dark-skinned face, her answer radiating from her gaze before she spoke.

“Yes, Martin, I love you.”

Anchoring his hands under her arms, he pulled her up higher
and fastened his mouth to her breasts, his teeth and tongue wringing spasms of desire from her wet, throbbing core.

Reversing their positions, he moved over her, his hair swinging forward and brushing her face. She inhaled his cologne and the subtle male scent that was Martin’s and Martin’s alone. She would be able find him in a darkened room filled with a hundred men.

His hands slipped under her hips, cupping her buttocks as she guided his rigid sex into her hot, inviting body.

Parris was unmindful that Martin hadn’t stop to reach for the small packets he kept on the bedside table as she gave into the fiery sensations of his thrusting hips. Each thrust was harder and deeper than the one before it and she tried thinking of everything but the rising desire threatening to stop her breath where she would die in Martin’s arms.

Martin was lost in his own world of sexual hysteria. Each time he made love to Parris he was rewarded with an unselfish offering where she held nothing back.

She never faked her responses and her slender body demanded wordlessly from him what he had never given another woman—all of himself.

He moved his mouth over hers, caressing her lips before they parted to his searching tongue. His tongue matched the rhythmic cadence of his pounding hips, both moving with a frenzied thrusting motion that left Parris moaning and gasping for air. She whispered his name, the sound of her husky voice penetrating the fog burning his brain.

“Take all of me,” he pleaded over and over, as her body stretched to accommodate his prodigious size. “Take it. That’s it, baby. “That’s it,” he repeated.

She took him—every inch of length and width of his blood-engorged sex until she felt him touch her womb.

She screamed his name, the sound of it floating to the ceiling and it was swallowed up by the whirring sound of the blades from a ceiling fan.

Martin felt the room spin, the light from the lamp dim and the strong milking suction of Parris’s body as she pulled him in until they ceased to exist as separate entities.

He loved her and she loved him. That was all that mattered as he exploded, leaving his seed buried deep within her body.

M
artin and Parris returned to the States at the end of a week tanned and relaxed. They strolled through the West Palm Beach airport, hand-in-hand, following a red cap pushing a cart filled with their luggage out of the terminal to an awaiting taxi.

“Martin!”

He turned in the direction of a feminine voice and was temporarily blinded by the flash of a bulb. He blinked several times to clear his vision, then noted the surprised expression on Parris’s face.

“Thanks, darling,” crooned the petite woman with the camera.

Parris stared at the woman’s retreating back, her pulses racing. “Who was that?”

“She’s a photographer with the
West Palm Beach Post
.”

“Why did she take your picture?”

Martin’s arm circled her waist, pulling her closer to his side. “She took
our
picture. Natalie’s been trying to get some “dirt” on me for a long time. And if I know Natalie she’ll probably make up something lewd for Renata Baldwin’s gossip column.”

“I hope not,” Parris replied. She didn’t want her association with Martin Cole advertised in the local morning newspaper.

His dark eyes registered her distressed look. “Does it bother you to be seen with me?”

Tilting her chin, she stared up at him. The hot Jamaican sun
had burned his skin to a rich mahogany brown, accentuating the inky blackness of his hair and eyebrows.

“No,” she said. What bothered her was that there was no valid reason to advertise their liaison to all of the citizens of West Palm Beach. Those interested in Martin Cole would discover soon enough that she was living with him even though she was less concerned with propriety than she was about having lies printed about her.

A taxi pulled up to the curb and the red cap opened the rear door. Martin settled her on the seat, then waited until their luggage was loaded in the trunk of the car before giving the driver his destination.

He pressed a bill into the red cap’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Bennett.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cole. And you have a good evening,” the elderly red cap said with a smile.

Martin returned his smile. “You do the same, Mr. Bennett.”

“Who don’t you know, Martin?” Parris asked when he was seated beside her.

“You. I don’t know you, Parris Simmons.”

“You know all you need to know about me. Where are we going?” Parris asked as the cab left the airport in the opposite direction from Martin’s housing development.

“I have to pick up a car for you,” Martin explained. “If you’re going to live with me you’re going to need a car to get to work.”

Parris glanced down at her watch. “It’s Saturday night, and it’s seven o’clock. Where are you going to buy a car at this hour?”

“I didn’t say I was going to buy a car, Parris. I said I was going to pick up a car.”

“Where?”

“At my parents’ house.”

“Martin!”

He could hear the panic in her voice. “You look wonderful.”

“I’m not concerned about how I look. I’m just not prepared to meet your parents. What are you going to tell them about me?”

“I’ll tell them the truth. That we’ve been living together for over a month and that we’re in love with each other.”

A flicker of uneasiness coursed through her. “You can’t come out and say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

Why not? she said over and over to herself as the taxi pulled into a circular drive leading to a large house designed in Spanish and Italian revival styles with barrel-tiled red roofs, a stucco facade and balconies shrouded in lush bougainvillea and sweeping French doors that opened onto broad expanses of terraces with spectacular panoramic water views. The magnificent structure was surrounded by tropical foliage, exotic gardens and the reflection of light off sparkling lake waters.

Martin directed the driver to leave their luggage by the front door as he pushed it open and let Parris proceed him into an entrance with an African slate floor. Her professional gaze catalogued the Dutch ebony and gilt table dating to the eighteenth century cradling a Baccarat vase with a profusion of snow-white roses.

She registered the sound of footsteps and turned to find a tall slender woman dressed in pink silk with short graying black hair staring at her. There was no mistaking who the woman was. She and Martin shared the same delicate features.

The older woman’s surprise was short-lived when she smiled at her son. Her dimpled smile was Martin’s.

“Darling,” she crooned, her voice soft and caressing. “It’s nice that you decided to share dinner with us. But you should’ve let us know that you were bringing company.”

Martin gathered his mother to his chest and kissed her cheek. “We didn’t come for dinner. I came to pick up a car.”

Marguerite Josefina Diaz Cole registered the “we” and arched her sweeping black eyebrows. Pulling away from Martin, she gave him a questioning look. “Can’t you stay for a few minutes? I was just telling Sammy that I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

Martin grasped Parris’s hand and squeezed her fingers. “Mother, I’d like you to meet Parris Simmons. Parris, my mother, Marguerite Cole.”

Parris managed a smile for the tall elegant woman. “My pleasure, Mrs. Cole.” Even though she and Martin’s mother were
of equal height, Marguerite seemed to stare down her thin delicate nose at her.

“Please call me M.J.” She turned her attention back to Martin before Parris could acknowledge her as M.J. “You don’t have to eat, Martin. Just stay a while and have some coffee. You know that Saturday nights are always informal.”

Martin glanced down at Parris and she nodded. “Okay. We’ll have coffee.”

He released her fingers and curved an arm around her waist. “Come, I’ll show where you can freshen up.”

Martin led Parris up a flight of twin staircases and down a hall. She barely had time to note the furnishings which were predominately French. She saw a pair of Louis XVI wing chairs upholstered with Scalamandré silk and a bench of the same period covered in Bergamo silk in a sitting room off a second floor bedroom.

“Even though I don’t live here any longer I haven’t removed everything from my apartment. This house has twenty-four rooms and four apartment suites,” Martin explained. “I think my parents planned on having six children, but stopped at four. I’m the oldest. I have two sisters and one brother.”

“Do they live here?”

“Only David. Nancy and Juliana are married and live in Palm Beach.”

She followed Martin into a bedroom suite that was a startling departure from the other rooms in the house. Martin’s apartment was dramatically contemporary from the furnishings to the stark blacks, whites and grays of sofas, chairs and rugs. The suite contained a sitting/dressing room, a bedroom and an adjoining full bathroom.

She had her answer in what period to decorate his home—a blending of contemporary with a few Art Deco and antique pieces.

Parris examined her face over the lighted sink in the bathroom. Her cheeks were beginning to fill out again and the dark shadows under her eyes had disappeared. The week in Jamaica had darkened her golden-brown skin where it shimmered with a glow of good health. She unpinned her hair and brushed it then
repinned it in a twist with a feathering of bangs across her forehead. Searching the depths of her handbag, she found a tube of burnt-orange lipstick and applied a coat of color to her lips.

After washing and drying her hands she turned to leave the bathroom but ran into Martin. His hands went out as he steadied her.

“Careful, darling.” He stared down at her face, his eyes moving slowly over her mouth. “You look beautiful,” he whispered reverently.

She had barely caught her breath when he took it again as his mouth covered hers, his tongue pushing gently against her lips. Her lips parted and his tongue worked it magic as it searched, caressed and communicated delicious sensations of what she could expect when they returned home.

Parris pressed her breasts to his hard chest, her arms going around his neck. “Home.” It was strange that she could think of Martin’s house as her home; she realized home wasn’t a structure of wood, slate or stucco but Martin. He was home. Being with him afforded her shelter, protection and security.

Her arms came down and she pushed against his broad chest with both hands. “Martin,” she gasped. “Your mother is waiting for us.”

Curbing the urge to kiss her again, he said, “You’ve met beauty and now it’s time you meet the beast. The beast is my father.”

Parris didn’t know what to expect from Samuel Cole, but it wasn’t the tall, muscled man with a head of shocking white hair and a booming voice.

Her smaller hand was lost in the huge one Samuel extended to her. “Welcome, welcome.” He pumped her hand vigorously. “It’s been a while since Martin has brought a girl home to meet us, but if you’re the reason for this auspicious occasion then you’re welcome here anytime.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cole.” Parris felt the heat in her face when Samuel Cole stared openly at her.

“Call me Sammy. I’ve made it a rule not to stand on ceremony in my home.”

Parris smiled up at the man with the rich sienna-brown coloring.
Looping her hand over his arm, Sammy led her out of the living room to a loggia. Martin followed, escorting M.J.

The loggia opened out to a courtyard and beyond the courtyard gardens. Lighted overhead Spanish lanterns spilled golden light onto a table of twisted rattan set with dining for six.

Martin seated his mother. “Who else are you expecting?”

“David said he might come back in time to eat with us.” M.J. offered Sammy her attractive smile. “We’re ready, dear.”

Martin moved to stand behind Parris’s chair after his father had seated her. The fingers of his right hand trailed lightly over her bare arm. The gesture was barely perceptible but neither of the older Coles missed its possessive significance.

The two men retreated inside the house, leaving Parris with M.J.

Sammy reached for a large wooden bowl filled with salad greens. “How serious is this, Martin?”

He stared at his father, his gaze never wavering. “It’s very serious. We’ve been living together. And if she’d have me I’d marry her tomorrow.”

Sammy crossed thick arms over his chest. “That’s serious,” he replied in awe.

Sammy removed a large glass bowl of seafood salad from the refrigerator and several bottles filled with salad dressings. The two men were silent as they returned to the loggia.

Martin was relieved to find Parris chatting amicably with his mother. He had found on occasion that M.J. tended to intimidate people with her formal presence. She had grown up as a member of pre-revolutionary Cuban aristocracy, and even after more than thirty years the breeding and privileges afforded her class had not faltered or vanished.

“Parris tells me that she is a decorator,” M.J. said to her husband.

“Who do you work for?” Sammy asked after he was seated.

“Chadwick, Ferguson and Solis.”

Sammy stared, his hand halting as he poured wine into crystal glasses. “They’re the most prestigious architectural and design firm in the country. You must be very talented to have secured a position with them.”

Martin watched Parris as she filled her plate with a small serving of salad greens and another plate with a seafood salad of shrimp, lobster and crab. Both of them had eaten on the plane. He also noted that the glass of white wine at her place setting went untouched.

“Are you originally from West Palm?” M.J. asked.

“Yes.”

Sammy reached over and covered M.J.’s hand with his. “Martin and Parris are living together.”

Parris thought M.J. was going to faint as color drained from her face, leaving it a sickly sallow shade under her naturally burnished-gold complexion. Reaching for her wineglass, M.J. took a sip of the chilled liquid. Her hand shook when she put down the glass. “You’re too young to start living with
men
. I’m certain your mother…”

“My mother’s dead,” Parris interrupted. “And I’m not too young to live with a man. I lived with a man when I was married.”

Martin shifted his eyebrows as his parents turned their startled gazes on him. They wanted answers and apparently they were not prepared for the truth.

“Why live together?” M.J. continued. “Why not marry?”

“We’ll marry when it’s time to marry,” Martin replied, staring at Parris’s profile.

“I agree with Martin,” Parris stated, smiling at him. “We’ll both know when the time is right.”

Sammy and M.J. exchanged a subtle look of amusement when they realized their son had fallen in love, but what had surprised them was that Parris Simmons wasn’t the type of woman they had expected him to marry.