i 077f700896a1d224 (16 page)

Francis threw her a sidelong glance. It was as though he was a totally different person

from the precise businessman at the airstrip, with his wind-ruffled hair and faded jeans,

and his white shirt open at the neck to leave his strong throat free of restriction. She

sensed the latent maleness in the length and breadth of his thighs, sewn into the larger,

stronger bone and sinew, a psychic sniff that was like an exotic perfume. It was heady

and perturbing, a dangerously addictive drug that wrapped itself around her jangling

nerves.

'What were you laughing at when you climbed in?' he asked.

Kirstie shrugged, looking out of her own window to give herself the illusion of space

away from this disturbing man. 'At how silly the whole charade was, I guess. It

reminded me of when I was a teenager. My bedroom window on the second floor

overlooks the garage roof and I used to sneak out of it, across the roof, and down the

large oak tree on the opposite side. It seemed a clever thing to do—until I got caught.'

She heard the silent exhalation of his laugh and slanted a look back at him in time to see

him sober. He said, 'Louise told me how your parents died in a car accident. I was sorry

to hear it; I'd never met them, but I liked what I knew about them.'

She lifted a shoulder in helpless reaction against an old ache. 'They were pretty neat

people. They had a good deal of common sense and a whole lot of love. It was a

combination that managed to keep them pretty sane through the raising of four kids.'

Then, almost in the same breath, 'Francis, where are we going?'

'Does it matter?' he countered. The smile had crept back around the edges of his mobile,

fascinating mouth.

The dull ache, a baffling grief, still hurt her chest. She ignored it and replied, wryly, 'We

don't have to go this far out to talk about Louise.'

'But there's no reason why we can't enjoy ourselves while we do it, is there?' He lifted

one hand from the wheel and spread it out fingers up, a graceful offering made with a

turn of his wrist. 'The night is made for magic. The Manhattan skyline, Greenwich

Village jazz, Little Italy and Chinatown restaurants, Harlem funk. It's all ahead. It can be

ours for the experience.'

He made a whole night of possibilities appear in what he said, in that little gesture. He

brought to her a cruel fantasy of simple pleasure, and she wanted it.

Kirstie didn't mind confusion. Not really, not as long as it was confined to items, events

and other people. She became distressed, however, when the confusion was inside her,

and Francis prompted a screaming riot of conflicting emotions and desires. It had taken

several weeks, but she had just got her life back to some semblance of normality,

haunted only by memory and self-denial, when he had to reappear and sent her back on

to that rollercoaster ride.

Of course the best way to alleviate the confusion was to avoid him. After tonight that

was exactly what she intended to do, and she would stop thinking about him as well. He

wanted to talk to her about Louise, so she would listen and sympathise as best she could

with whatever it was that troubled him. And, when the evening was over, so too would

her phantom guilt be eradicated. They could go their inevitable separate ways.

Having thus mapped out the immediate future to her complete satisfaction, Kirstie slid

down in her seat, swamped in misery at what she felt sure would bring her peace of

mind.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FRANCIS asked Kirstie what kind of evening she preferred and, thinking it would be better

than the intimacy of more quiet settings, she opted for a nightclub. Once she was in the

packed Soho club, however, Kirstie began to have second thoughts.

Francis went ahead to forge a path through the crowd, the fingers of one hand locked

firmly around hers. Kirstie scuttled along with her nose buried in Francis's shirt-sheathed

back.

Someone jostled her, and she fell into him with a bump. Francis twisted around and put

a protective arm around her shoulders, drawing her against his side. The slightly raised

calluses on his palm rasped against the tiny sensitive hairs on her upper arms, and her

resulting shiver was violent.

His voice rumbled in her ear and vibrated through her ribcage. 'What do you want to

drink?'

'Scotch,' said Kirstie, her heart knocking like a faulty engine. She looked away, unable to

meet that lazy, jewel-like gleam bending down towards her. 'Make it a double, please.'

For some reason that made him laugh. 'There never are any half-measures with you, are

there?' She turned back to stare at him, but he was already walking to the bar.

Francis leaned against the bar-top and ordered Kirstie's Scotch, along with a tonic and

lemon for him, as he was driving. Kirstie looked around at the nightclub with interest,

for it had been Francis's choice. The place had more character than elegance, and the

crowd was rowdy and expansive. Most of the men wore jeans, though several women

were attired in clinging dresses and high heels. Nevertheless, Kirstie did not feel out of

place in her casual clothes.

It was not exactly the sort of place that she would have thought Francis even knew

about, let alone where he would go out of choice. If she had thought about it at all, she

would have imagined him surrounded by civilised expense, where all the waiters and

waitresses talked in hushed whispers and champagne was priced at hundreds of dollars

per bottle.

With a pang she finished painting the picture in her mind. Louise's voluptuous beauty,

clothed in designer fashion, Cartier jewellery and handmade Italian shoes would fit in

perfectly.

'Penny for them,' murmured a voice in her ear. She jumped as Francis pressed a glass

full of amber liquid into her hands. He was too close, the music too loud; she would

have to put her mouth right up to the lean line of his jaw in order to make herself heard

at all. Instead she just smiled and shook her head.

He smiled back. 'Come on, I've found a space at the bar.' So, feeling like an obedient

dummy, she followed him to the empty bar stool where they placed their drinks. Francis

turned back to her, sliding his hands down her arms to her elbows to make the small

jump to her waist as he helped her hop on to the high perch.

She swivelled to the bar counter and nursed her drink, huddling over it while Francis

lounged by her side. He did not seem in any hurry to delve into conversation, though,

and watched the people around him with alert interest. Her eyes followed the curve of

black hair at the nape of his strong neck and met the avid, hungry gaze of a woman from

the opposite side of the bar, who had been appreciating the same view. Instant

antagonism flared with a growl inside Kirstie. She glanced away abruptly, shocked.

'What do you think, do you like the place?' asked Francis beside her.

She kept her face averted. 'It's got character.'

'Kirstie,' he said. She turned her head. Their gazes, mere inches apart, connected with a

shock. His patient emerald eyes sparkled with the reflections of the brightly coloured

directed lights. 'I thought we might be able to enjoy ourselves a little, but you haven't

relaxed since we walked through the door.'

'I'm sorry,' she muttered, shivering inside as his gaze shifted down to her lips. 'I've got a

lot on my mind.'

He accepted that without prying and told her, 'If you want to go, we can go.'

He sounded indifferent, as if it didn't matter, and it woke the perverse side of Kirstie's

normally easygoing nature. She had acted the fool, sneaked her car into her own

driveway, travelled for more than an hour to get here, only to turn right around and

leave? 'No,' she said, taking a swallow of her drink. It burned in her stomach, spreading

a reckless warmth. 'That's all right, we can stay.'

'Well, for a moment I was worried, but judging by your enthusiasm you must be having

the time of your life,' he said, and the sarcasm was so accurately thrust that it surprised

her into staring at him.

Heavens, what was wrong with her? She hadn't said or done anything right since he'd

appeared at the airstrip. Kirstie stuttered with contrition, 'I am sorry— I didn't mean—

what I meant to say was '

Then Francis surprised her even more as he burst out laughing. Amusement lit his whole

face, and she had just enough time to realise that he had been teasing her when he set

down his own drink and took hold of her arm. 'Come on, you ridiculous creature,' said

Francis, dragging her off the stool 'There's no talking reason with you at the moment, so

we may as well dance.'

He led her on to the packed dance-floor and pulled her against his chest. There, indeed,

all reason deserted her as he wrapped both arms firmly around her and held her tight,

despite all her attempts to put some distance between them.

Frantic heat coursed through her body. Kirstie turned her head away, wild to look

anywhere but at where his shirt-buttons parted to reveal hair-sprinkled skin. He bent his

head and put his lips to the shell of her ear, murmuring wickedly, 'What's the matter,

Kirstie? You're as stiff as a board.'

'This isn't the right music for slow dancing,' she hissed.

'Ah, but there's no room for anything else. Be a sport. Put your arms around my neck

and pretend you like this.'

Like this?
Like
this? Her composure was in smoking ruins, her thinking a debacle. This

was a disaster; this was madness. This was unbearable pleasure, with his thighs rubbing

gracefully against hers, his torso a perfect haven. All her senses were vibrantly aware of

the length and breadth of his body, his scent and warmth. Her fingers slid up to his

shoulders and tightened. She meant to push him away, to set herself free, but, when he

buried his face into her hypersensitive neck and inhaled slow and deep, all the strength

trickled out of her arms.

His hands moved down the curve of her spine, moulding her body against the taut,

muscle-ridged length of his. She could feel every hollow and bulge through her thin

flying suit, even the rough, sturdy barrier of jeans at his hips. Her breasts were pressed

hard against his chest, the double barriers of their clothing no protection from the

sensation of the soft twin mounds of flesh thudding with her heartbeat, thudding into

him. With a slow, deep sigh he brought his head down and laid it gently against hers.

She caught her breath in a trembling moan that cut through the chest-thudding beat of

the music, and, as always, lost her battle to react against Francis.

His armament was fantastic. He had the thrust of the intellect, the ability to manoeuvre

conversations, a sense of humour, and, most importantly of all, he laid all those weapons

down and succumbed to this simplistic, silent quest for animal comfort. It made him

vulnerable, and that was his most secret weapon of all, for his vulnerability crumbled her

common sense and veiled her mind from the thought of future consequence.

She was shaking like a leaf and flailed mentally for some kind of secure point to hold on

to. 'Stop it,' she groaned.

He lifted his head and his arms tightened, gathering her even closer. She looked up and

his eyes, green and narrowed, were quizzically puzzled. 'Why?' he asked quietly. 'Am I

hurting you? Are you hurting me?'

Her head was too heavy and fell on to his waiting shoulder. 'No—yes. Because—

because '

'Because you're afraid you might want it?' he asked gently.

She had no reason to give him the answer; self-protection alone should have stopped her.

She held very still and after long seconds whispered, 'Yes.'

Was that a tremble in his limbs. Did she imagine his low groan? Blocking the flashing

lights, he bent his cheek to her head. When she might have lifted her face, he cupped the

back of her neck with both heavy hands. His heart was racing out of control, thudding

through his whole body like a midnight train, and she was the one who pressed hard

against him, felt the butterfly flutter of his ridged stomach muscles, the damp heat

making his shirt cling to him, the stunning, mind-destroying evidence of the hardened

pressure pounding low between his hips that thrust its aggressive male urgency into the

soft pit of her abdomen. Her answering rhythmic ache was an emptiness that was a

physical pain.

This had never happened to her before, not even with that first, distant love-affair. This

elemental compulsion was totally outside her experience; she had no controls, no

barriers to erect and pull her back, for she had never needed them. Her breath came fast

as inside she careened towards a breaking-point. So very close; she was almost there;

they could both sense it. Her eyes closed, her head turned, her mouth seeking the erratic

pulse-point at his open neck, and his hands guided her.

Then a rambunctious laughing couple bumped into them and the moment splintered.

Both Kirstie and Francis staggered. The other woman struggled to get her balance but