Intimate Strangers (9 page)

Roarke poured them more champagne and stood up and prowled around the room sipping his drink. Sara watched him, turning her head as he walked behind her chair. Roarke came back to the table and scooped up the bottle and emptied the remaining champagne into his glass then continued his restless roaming. He picked up the sketch pad lying on the chaise and sat down, setting his glass on the floor beside him. Throwing back the heavy cover, his eyes narrowed as he examined the sketch of his face. Glancing over at Sara, he took the loose page out of the pad and his face clouded when he noticed the second sketch. Tearing the other sheet of paper from the pad, he held the two sketches at arm's length and studied them.

In a low, hoarse rasp, he asked, "When did you do these?" He laid them on the chaise beside him and reached down to pick up his glass.

"This afternoon."

"Both of them?"

"Yes."

Roarke looked over at her, his shadowed face a graphic sculpture of sorrow. "Why are there two?" he said, holding them up again in front of him.

"Well," Sara paused, "I was out on the balcony and had a vivid flashback and when I came out of it, I had drawn one of them."

"And the other?"

"I… I did it later," she lowered her head.

He studied them again, absorbed with his thoughts for a few minutes then suddenly he added, "You mean you don't remember doing one of them? Which one?"

She pointed to the drawing of the smiling Roarke in his left hand. "That one."

Again he examined the two sketches. Finally he held up the sketch he clutched in his right hand, the taut, tense face staring back at him. "My God, Sara, is this how you see me? Do I really appear so hard to you?"

Sara got out of her chair, clasped the cane, and went over to stand in front of him. "I don't know what to say, Roarke. I don't want to hurt your feelings but… yes, you do. I feel that every time I ask you anything about us, you close yourself off from me. I felt like your prisoner at first and now I'm feeling like your guest, not your wife. I have never felt that you've treated me like your wife, let alone someone who belongs in this house. I've had to put up with it because I don't know what to do or where to go. When I saw what I had drawn at first, I was angry because I don't remember ever seeing you look like that and… and in my anger and frustration, I drew that." She pointed to the picture.

Roarke jumped to his feet and threw his arms around her, pulling her roughly to his chest. "My poor Sara, my poor darling. Have I really been that rotten? I've tried to explain to you how confused I am, but I guess I didn't do a very good job of it." His lips touched her forehead. "I'm sorry, Sara." His voice was husky. "I never meant to hurt you so much. I never meant to make you feel like a prisoner. Sara, you don't know how I have to force myself to stay away from your room at night. I stand by your door, listening for any sound, any excuse to come in to you."

"Why haven't you told me this before? Can't you see how much I need you? Haven't I begged you for answers?" She tried to twist out of the steel arms that held her snugly pressed against his broad chest.

"I know you need me, Sara, but I'm not talking about that kind of need. I'm talking about my need to hold you close, to love you. It drives me crazy knowing you're sleeping across the hall, so near yet so far away from me." He lowered his head and brushed his lips across hers.

She jerked her face away. "I know that need, Roarke, I'm very familiar with it. I'm confused by my mixed feelings about you though, my reactions when you touch me. It's like my body remembers you while my mind doesn't. But how can you expect me to give into that instinct when I feel as though you've built a wall between us? You're the one who put me across the hall from you. I didn't."

Roarke tilted her face up. She saw the passion and hurt in his eyes. Her heart picked up its beat and the blood roared in her ears as he said softly, "Let me love you, Sara. Let me show you how I feel, I need you so much."

Roarke pulled her still more tightly against him and Sara hesitantly slid her arms around his waist, lured by his words. Bringing his face close to hers, he placed soft lingering kisses on her cheeks, and Sara could feel her face becoming warm wherever his lips touched her skin. Then his lips tenderly sought hers. He kissed her gently at first but soon hungrily entwined their bodies in a passionate embrace. His lips were soft but firm and tasted sweet. The pressure slowly parted her lips and Roarke's questing tongue invited hers to join his, and as their tongues tentatively touched, she found herself, surprisingly, responding with equal fervor. His hand slipped around and caressed her throat, then she could feel it slide downward to her breasts.

Sara's awakened passion surged through her body. She molded herself to him; the need to have him make love to her overpowered her defenses. Clinging to him, her hands clutching his back, she tried to draw him even closer to her. The familiarity of his kiss, his body, and her response to him shook her to the depth of her soul.

Slowly he moved her jacket off her shoulders and she dropped her arms to let it slide to the floor. Urgently she grasped his body with her hands again, digging her nails into the silky material of his shirt. He kissed the hollow of her throat and ran his tongue along her shoulder. His lips left a trail of fire that ended at her mouth, and his hand slipped the strap of her dress along the soft skin of her upper arm. Stroking her bared breast with his fingertips, he ran kisses down the valley between them and then his lips softly caressed the mounds of silken flesh. Sara didn't want him to stop. She could feel the warmth from his touch rising, slowly, insistently, within her. Her need for him was uppermost in her mind, and she knew her submission to him was absolute.

Roarke's searching lips ceased their exploration and he drew away from her slightly. For one aching moment Sara thought Roarke had decided to blind himself to her needs as he had since she had awakened in the hospital. His eyes questioned hers and she knew her consuming desire to be close to him glowed from her eyes and the answer to his unspoken question was there for him to see. He gently slipped the other strap off her shoulder and his lips lightly touched the skin where the strap had lain, as his hand played with the zipper in the back. The dress slithered down her body and curled around her feet, lying like a blue shadow on the carpet.

"Sara, it's been so long since I've held you," he murmured as he swept her into his arms and carried her over to the bed and lay her down. "Your body is still the silky softness I remember." His fingers tickled over her skin. "Its perfection has haunted me and has made me want you again and again." The tenderness of his touch and his husky voice, filled with desire, held Sara spellbound.

She closed her eyes. She wanted to imprint every word, every sensation into her mind. She needed him, his love, his body, the body that hers remembered. Her need was so strong, it made her tremble. Her body moved sinuously under his touch, rising and falling to the concerto that was being played on her nerves. She felt the warmth of his fingers trace her jawline and earlobes and twine themselves in her long hair. The skin on her body tensed and relaxed, pulsating as the knowing hands and fingers probed and stroked. Slowly she opened her eyes when the sensations that had been bombarding her senses suddenly stopped. Roarke was standing beside the bed removing his clothes and she watched, 'entranced as his smooth muscular body, a deep bronze in the low lamplight, was revealed.

"Roarke," Sara whispered impatiently through passion-swollen lips. "Touch me, caress me, love me!"

He gazed into her half-closed eyes as he leaned over her, moving closer and closer. Then his mouth sought hers again and his embrace crushed her against him, holding her in a viselike grip. "Sara," he moaned, his lips moving on her lips as he gasped the words, his breath softly mingling with hers. "You're the only woman who could ever make me feel this way. You drive me crazy with desire. I need you so badly." Bare flesh pressed bare flesh, and Sara could feel his burgeoning desire.

As he ran his hands over her, her flesh ignited and inflamed her consciousness. His lips and tongue ran down across her breasts, circling the tip of each and then moved downward across her stomach.

Sara was enthralled, her senses drugged. She was no longer a rational human being. She was nothing but total sensation, a heat that had no fire, a throbbing body with no mind, no reason, just uncontrollable passion. Moaning, and grasping his wavy hair with her hands, the waves of heat rushed through her and her stomach tightened under the force of her tension. Cradling his face with her hands and curving her body, she drew his lips to meet hers. Her voice, guttural with ecstasy, begged, "Roarke, I want you… now!"

She clenched her arms around his strong torso and, in her urgency, controlled their tempo. She ascended the fiery peak and, meeting him there, they spiraled down the other side together.

Roarke held her close for a long time and Sara curled languidly against him. For the first time in weeks she felt at peace. Finally she had a sense of belonging. Right now her dark corners held no fear. He kissed the top of her head and lifted her chin, and their eyes met.

If only they could hold on to this afterglow and stay this close. She wondered if these shared emotions could be nurtured and transplanted into their relationship outside the bedroom. If they could, maybe she could find her way to the past and Roarke could trust her again.

Tentatively she reached over and ran her fingertips over his chest, tracing the muscles that glowed in the candlelight, and she played with the dark hairs that covered the sensitive skin.
How could I have forgotten him
?

Roarke leaned over and kissed her forehead then sat up against the headboard. He fumbled around for a cigarette on the tabletop, and when he couldn't find one, got out of bed. He picked up his trousers from the floor where they had been dropped in his earlier haste. Searching in the pockets, he found the pack, lit a cigarette, then sat back down beside her..

Sara sat up, pulling the sheet across her body. "Roarke, was it always this good between us?" she whispered.

The muscled body swung around and Roarke stared at her, his brows meshed together. Taking a deep drag on the cigarette, he said, "Don't you remember? That was the one great thing we shared. You didn't act like you forgot how to make love." He stood up and, with a sharp backward glance, started walking toward the bathroom, gathering his clothes as he went.

Flinging her hand out to him in a pleading gesture, Sara called, "Please, don't walk away! I don't remember!"

Pivoting in his tracks, Roarke stopped short and sneered scathingly, "Well, who have you been practicing with? You sure didn't forget how to please a man!" He reached over and smashed his cigarette into an ashtray.

Sara's hand flew to her mouth. She felt as though he had slapped her. "What… what on earth do you mean, who have I been practicing with? Aren't I married to you?" Her eyes glittered then narrowed with anger. "You've been insinuating things ever since I came home. You always seem to bring other men into our conversations. You've made me wonder what kind of a wife I was. Did I cheat on you? Just what in the hell are you talking about?" She wanted to cry. Somehow the spell was broken. Somehow Roarke had managed to crush the tender feelings that had warmed her body.

"How do I know what you've been doing or who you've been doing it with? We haven't lived together for two years!" He froze, clenching his fists by his sides.

Rising to her knees, the sheet falling in a jumble around her hips, she sputtered, "We… what?"

Walking toward her, he ground out through gritted teeth, "I didn't want you to know. At least not now and not like this."

Sara reached up and, with balled fists, pounded on his chest, tears streaming down her face. "You bastard," she seethed, "you used me!" He grabbed her fists as she crumpled back down onto the bed. Sobbing, she cried, "That's why I felt like this, like I don't belong. This is why Martha… you bastard," she screamed again, "you told Martha and Bradley not to tell me. How could you? You tell me you don't trust me! And you've been lying to me ever since I woke up in the hospital. Pretending you were so happy I was alive." She buried her face in the pillow and with her voice muffled she sobbed, "Oh, why wasn't I killed? Why did I have to live? Go… go away, Roarke."

Sitting on the bed, Roarke grabbed her shoulders and, as he turned her to face him, he shook her violently. "Don't ever say that again! I don't ever want to hear you say that again." He pulled her close to him and limply she buried her face in his chest. She just couldn't stand to look at him. "Sara, Sara, I didn't mean to tell you like this, it just slipped out. Believe me, I have my reasons for not telling you about our separation."

Quietly, in a low growl, Sara said, "Why should I believe you? Roarke, let me go. I don't want you to touch me. You used me, and I'll never forgive you for that."

"I needed you and you needed me," Roarke replied coldly, dropping his hands off her shoulders.

"Need? I didn't just need you, I wanted you. My mind might not remember you, but my body hasn't forgotten you." Sara dropped her head to her chest, her long, blond hair falling down across her face like a curtain. "You said you needed me, but not once have you said you wanted me. Do you equate love with sex?"

"Sara, don't be ridiculous. This conversation is getting us nowhere." He got up off the bed, grabbed another cigarette, lit it, and paced around the room. Then, stooping over, he picked up his trousers and put them on, the cigarette tightly clenched in his lips. He walked over to the window and stood with his back to her.

Sara lay back against the piled-up pillows. "Roarke, this is maddening. Tell me about it You said one of the great things we shared was our bed. What else did we share? Why did we separate?" She saw his shoulders heave with a deep intake of breath.

In a voice so low that Sara had to strain to hear him, he said, "We were happy when we were first married, but as the years went by we seemed to grow apart. Two years ago you packed your bags and moved out. We've been apart ever since. After we separated, you didn't want a divorce, and I agreed. On the night of your accident, when Ted Maxwell called and told me you had been seriously hurt, I went to the hospital and that was the first time I'd seen you in several months." He drew heavily on the cigarette and turned back to her. "Sara, I don't think we should discuss this anymore."