Honey Moon (29 page)

"Dash, what's—"

"Shut up. You're acting like a goddamn whore."

She looked stunned, and then her eyes narrowed. "You bastard."

He wanted to whip the back of his hand right across her snotty little mouth. The silver chain on her evening purse had slipped from her shoulder and the purse bumped against the side of his leg, but he ignored it. Wanda was trying to get his attention, and several of the departing guests spoke to him. He stalked past them without replying.

He got her out into the hallway and around the corner, then dragged her down a carpeted ramp while the delicate beading on her little slip of a dress rustled in protest. Just as they reached a back set of elevators, he saw that she held an open bottle of champagne in one hand, and the siren gave a throaty, triumphant laugh.

Gotcha again!

His heart slammed against his ribs as he thrust her into the elevators. The doors slid shut; he stabbed the button.

And then he closed his hand into a fist.

16

Honey stared at Dash.

The elevator soared upward, and she clutched the bottle to her chest. She'd had too much to drink, but she wasn't so drunk that she didn't realize Dash had turned dangerous. His face was pale and stony, his bearing rigid. And the hand he held at his side was clenched tight.

"I should never have brought you here." He spit out the words, each one poisoned.

The alcohol in her blood made her reckless. "Obviously not, since you've ignored me all night."

The doors opened. She fled past him out into the hallway, the champagne bottle dangling from her fingertips, but she didn't move quickly enough to get away from him.

He reached out and snatched the purse from her shoulder. "You're drunk."

She wasn't drunk, but she wasn't entirely sober, either. "What do you care?"

His green eyes were hard chips. "I care, all right." They reached her suite, and he dug into her evening bag for the key. Unlocking the door with one hand, he shoved her inside with the other.

"Get out of here," she cried.

The door closed behind him. "Give me that bottle. I don't want you drinking."

She had forgotten about the champagne she had snatched from the table. She didn't want any more to drink, but now that he was demanding she hand over the bottle, she decided she wouldn't give it up.

Why should she? He hadn't said a word when Wanda had separated them at the wedding or later when she'd seated them at different tables for the reception.

He'd danced with everybody but her. She was

hurt and angry, and she had just enough alcohol in her veins to challenge him.

"Why should I do what you tell me?"

"Because you'll be sorry if you don't."

He took a step toward her, and she immediately backed away, retreating across the living room until she bumped into a door frame. She sidestepped and moved backward into the bedroom.

"Give me the bottle." He came through the doorway after her, his face bleak and scary.

She realized that he was finally giving her his complete attention. Her pulse began a crazy thumping as

she decided that his anger was better than his indifference.

Clutching the bottle to her breasts, she kicked off her shoes and confronted him. "You've ordered me around for the last time, Dash Coogan. You can go to hell."

"Hand it over, Honey."

Her calves bumped against the bed. She clambered up on it, knowing that she was playing a dangerous game but unable to stop herself. "Take it away from me."

Without warning, he lurched forward and snatched the bottle from her.

She had been so absorbed in her own misery that she'd forgotten about his alcoholism. Now as she stared at the open bottle in his hands, she froze.

Seconds ticked by, and then an expression of disgust crossed his face. In two steps he reached the bottom of the bed and flung the bottle into the trash can that sat nearby with such force that the container fell to its side. A small amount of champagne frothed onto the carpet.

He turned back to her as she stood in the center of the mattress. His features were harsh, impossible to read. She began to walk awkwardly away from him until she reached the headboard. She leaned against the wall for balance, a position that thrust her breasts slightly forward.

He went very still. She watched as his eyes slid down over her. Seconds slipped by, one giving way to another. The rush of blood in her ears grew louder.

Following his gaze, she saw that her dress had ridden far up on her thighs. A dangerous excitement, stronger than fear, took hold of her. Placing the palms of her hands flat on the wall behind her, she angled her hips forward more sharply so that her dress rode higher.

"Stop it," he said hoarsely.

The wildness that had been skimming around her all evening took possession.

She parted her thighs. "What's the matter, cowboy?" she said huskily. "Can't you take a little heat?"

"You don't have any idea what you're doing."

"Poor Daddy," she said, her voice soft and mocking.

"Don't call me that," he said harshly.

She pushed her spine away from the wall and began walking down the length of the bed toward him, her stockinged feet sinking into the mattress. The champagne fired her, giving her courage and daring and igniting a primitive instinct. She began a mocking croon to him, taunting him with a relationship that didn't exist, prodding him so that he would be forced to acknowledge that he was hiding behind a lie.

"Oh, Daddy mine. Sweet Daddy . . ."

"I'm not your daddy!" he burst out.

"Are you sure?"

"Don't—"

"Are you sure you're not my daddy?"

"I won't—"

"Be sure, Dash. Please."

He stood frozen before her, his head below hers for once. Her body moved in awkward rhythm to the unsteady surface beneath her feet. He didn't move as she leaned forward to wrap her arms around his neck.

"I'm sure," she said.

When he didn't reply, she took his mouth, kissing him hungrily, using her tongue and her teeth to have all of him. She drew his lips between hers, invading him as if she were the woman of experience and he the novice.

He was like ice and steel. Frozen. Unyielding.

She didn't stop. If they had just this one moment of truth between them, she would wring it dry and make it last forever. The only barriers that separated them were the ones he had erected in his mind. She stroked deep into his mouth.

A groan erupted from the back of his throat and his hand tangled in her hair. He drew her down until she fell against him and he was taking all her weight. His mouth opened, and he overpowered her.

His kiss was rough and deep, full of dark need. She wanted to drown in it. She wanted all of her body to fit through his mouth so she could hide herself away inside him. At the same time she wanted to grow in size and strength until she could overpower him and force him to love her as she loved him.

And then she felt him shudder. With an awful hiss, he drew his head back.

"What do you think you're doing?"

She collapsed to her knees on the bed. Reaching out, she wrapped her arms around his hips and crushed her cheek against the strong, flat muscles of his abdomen. "Exactly what I want to do."

He grabbed her shoulders, pushing her away. "That's enough! You've gone far enough, little girl."

She leaned back on her heels. Speaking softly, she said, "I'm not a little girl."

"You're twenty years old," he said harshly, "You're a kid."

"Liar," she whispered.

His eyes grew dark with pain, but she had no pity. This was her night. Probably the only night she would have. Without questioning what she was about to do, she slipped her hands to the back of her neck and reached beneath her hair for the tiny hook and eye at the top of her gown. When it was free, she tugged on the zipper. It made a small hiss in the quiet of the room, and the dress fell from her shoulders.

She dropped her feet over the side of the bed and stood. The dress slipped off her hips to the floor, leaving her in a lacy bra, shimmery silver stockings, and ice-blue tap pants.

His voice was hoarse. "You're drunk. You don't even know what you're asking for."

"Yes, I do."

"You're hot, and you want a man. It doesn't make any difference which one."

"That's not true. Kiss me again."

"No more kisses, Jane Marie."

"You're pathetic," she retorted, refusing to let him hide behind a make-believe relationship.

"I'm not—"

She caught his strong wrist and drew his hand to her breast, pressing it over the fullness. "Can you feel my heart pound, Dash?" She rubbed the palm back and forth so that her nipple hardened beneath the silky fabric. "Can you feel it?"

"Honey . . ."

She clasped his large hand beneath both of her smaller ones and slid it down between her breasts, over her ribs. "Can you feel me?"

"Don't. . ."

She paused for only a moment before she slipped it over the silky fabric of the tap pants and then between her legs.

"Christ." He touched her, closed around her, then pulled back as if she had burned him.

"We're going to stop this right now, you hear me?" he roared. "You're drunk, and you're acting like a whore, and that's the end of it."

"You're scared, aren't you?" She lowered her eyes to the front of his trousers. "I can see how much you want me, but you're too afraid to admit it."

"That's smut talking. You don't have the slightest idea what you're saying any more than you have any idea what sex is all about. I'm a hundred years older than you. You're just a kid."

"You're forty-three. That's hardly ancient. And you didn't kiss me like I was a kid."

"Not one more word. I mean it, Honey."

But she was in too much pain to stop. Setting her jaw, she attacked him.

"You're such a coward."

"That's enough."

"You don't have the guts to admit the way you feel about me."

"Stop it!"

"If I were a coward like you, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror."

"I said to stop!"

"I'd kill myself. I really would. I'd take a knife and stick it—"

"I'm warning you for the last time!"

"Coward!"

He grabbed her arm, nearly hauling her off' her feet as he drew her up against him. His face twisted, and as his mouth drew near hers, he hissed, "Is this what you want?"

The kiss was hard and consuming, and she should have been frightened, but the fire inside her burned too hot.

Her responsiveness fanned his anger instead of cooling it. Drawing back from her, he stripped offhis jacket. "All right. I'm done playing games with you. If that's what you want, I'm going to give it to you."

He whipped off his tie and tugged at the front of his shirt, sending the onyx studs flying. He was breathing heavily, and there was an air of desperation about him. "Don't you think for one minute that you can come crying to me afterward."

She watched as he stripped offhis cummerbund and shirt. "I won't cry."

"That's only because you don't know a damn thing about what's going to happen to you." He pitched a shoe across the room. "You don't know anything, do you?"

"Not—not from practical experience."

He yanked off his other shoe, throwing it against the bed stand with a curse.

"Practical experience is the only thing that counts. And don't think I'm going to make it easy on you. That's not the way I do it. You wanted yourself a lover, little girl. Now you got yourself one big time."

All her muscles went weak, and her wildness was replaced by fear. But even fear couldn't make her flee the room, because she needed his love too badly.

"Dash?"

"What do you want?"

"Do you—Should I take off the rest of my clothes now?"

His hands froze on the waistband of his trousers. He sank down into the chair behind him. For a moment he did nothing. She held her breath, praying that the man she loved would reappear instead of this dangerous stranger who was trying so hard to frighten her and succeeding all too well. But as his mouth thinned, she knew he wasn't going to relent.

"Now that's a real good idea." He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles as he inspected her. "You just take everything off nice and slow while I watch."

"Why are you making this so terrible?"

"What did you expect, little girl? Did you think it was going to be poetry and kisses? If you wanted that, you should have picked yourself a schoolboy.

Somebody as new to the game as you are. Somebody with nice manners who'd take time with you and wouldn't hurt you like I'm going to."

"You won't hurt me."

"Now that's where you're wrong. I'm gonna hurt you, all right. Look at how much bigger I am. Get that underwear off. Or are you ready to admit you've made a mistake?"

She wanted to run from him, but she couldn't. No one had ever found her worthy of love, and if this was the only kind he could give her, then she would take what he had to offer. Her hands trembled as she reached behind her to the clasp of her bra.

He shot up from the chair, his face contorted with fury. "This is your last chance. Once that bra comes off, I'm gonna be all over you."

She opened the clasp awkwardly and let the straps slip from her shoulders.

A muscle near his cheekbone ticked. "When that bra comes off, it'll be too late.

I mean it. You're gonna wish you'd never been born." The lacy garment dropped to the floor. "When that bra comes off, you're gonna wish—"

"Dash?" Her voice trembled, barely a whisper. "You're really scaring me.

Could you—Could you just hold me for a minute first?"

All his bluster disappeared. His shoulders dropped, and his mouth contorted with raw pain. Groaning, he reached out and wrapped her in his arms. Her breasts nestled into the warmth of his bare chest like small birds.

His voice blew across her ear, soft and sad. "I'm so afraid for you, Honey."

"Don't be afraid," she whispered. "I know you can't love me back."

"Sweetheart—"

"It's all right. I love you enough for both of us. I love you so much."