The Senator's Wife (14 page)

“My room is on seven,” Ronnie protested as the door shut and they started to rise.

“We’re going to walk up the last flight. Just in case. It wouldn’t be real hard for a good reporter to get your room number. I don’t want somebody surprising us as we get off the elevator.”

“Careful, aren’t we?”

“You better believe it.”

The motion of the elevator affected her balance, and she staggered a little. His grip on her hand tightened, steadying her.

“So you didn’t have that much to drink, eh?” The question was sarcastic. Ronnie shook her head stubbornly, hanging on to his hand for dear life; her head was starting to swim.

Their clasped hands brushed her bare thigh below
her shorts. That tiny touch sent heat shooting through her body. He felt it too. She could see it in his eyes.

“What in God’s name are you wearing?” His gaze found her denim cutoffs, and slid from them on down her legs. Ronnie knew she had nice legs, long and slim and tanned. Her feet, almost bare in strappy, high-heeled sandals, were very pretty too, long and slender with coral painted toes.

“They’re called shorts,” she said as the elevator reached its destination and stopped.

“They’re short, all right.” He looked her over, his eyes darkening. “Nice getup for a senator’s wife.”

“A senator’s wife is no different from any other woman.”

“Yes, she is. Her husband has to keep getting elected.”

They stepped out into the sixth-floor hallway. A quick glance around located a lighted exit sign over a doorway next to the elevator. Tom headed through it and into the stairwell, and Ronnie, having little choice in the matter since he still held her hand, followed him.

As Ronnie looked up at the double flight of stairs facing them, her knees threatened to sag.

“Do you really think all this is necessary?” she asked. “I feel like I went to sleep and woke up in a James Bond movie.”

“Better safe than sorry.” He let go of her hand and indicated that she should precede him. With a sigh Ronnie started to climb the stairs. She went slowly; each step required increasing effort. The metal handrail was cool to the touch, and she clung to it; the concrete steps amplified the sound of their footsteps. As she reached the seventh-floor landing, she glanced
back. Tom’s attention was riveted on the movement of her backside and bare legs.

He must have felt her watching him, because he looked up. Naked lust glinted in his eye for an instant, as unmistakable as the cold rush of air-conditioning sliding under the stairwell door to curl her toes. Then his brows snapped together and he glanced away. Seconds later he stepped up on the landing beside her.

“Do you have your key?” His voice was gruff.

Ronnie nodded, unzipping the small leather pouch that hung from her belt and extracting the key card.

He took it, motioned to her to be silent, and quietly opened the solid metal door. A quick glance out into the hall obviously revealed something amiss. He froze, then slowly, carefully, eased the door shut. Close as she was, Ronnie heard only the faintest click.

“What?” she asked as he let loose with a string of profanities under his breath.

“They’re staking out your room. Two of them, a woman and a man, probably a reporter and photographer. Shit.
Shit.
”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” The grimness of his expression said it all. “What they’re doing is smart, I have to give them that. If they’d waited in the lobby, you could have given them the slip. We
would
have given them the slip. But if you’re out, you have to go back to your room sooner or later. It’s a no-lose situation for them. If you’re in there, you have to come out. If you’re out, you have to go in. Either way they get what they want.
Shit.
”

“If they don’t have any pictures of me at the nightclub,
they can’t prove where I’ve been. Maybe I just went for a walk.”

“At three a.m.? In beautiful downtown Tupelo? Dressed like
that?
” His gaze ran over her, and he shook his head. Then he grabbed her hand and started back down the stairs. “Come on.”

“Where to?” Ronnie was perfectly willing to go with him anywhere. To tell the truth, she didn’t find the idea of reporters waiting outside her hotel room door nearly as upsetting as he seemed to. What did it matter? She almost welcomed the idea that the campaign would be over. She was sick of pretending.

“My room. Where else?” Tom sounded grim. Ronnie smiled.

His room was on the fourth floor. They walked down the stairs—Tom didn’t want to chance any stray elevator sounds that could possibly attract attention—and along the silent hallway. He let go of her hand to insert his key card into the lock, then stood back to let her precede him into the room.

Unlike her accommodations, his was a run-of-the-mill hotel room: brown carpet, beige walls, two uncomfortable-looking, orange-upholstered chairs flanking a round table in front of a single window with closed, multicolored drapes, an entertainment center with a TV, and a lone, king-sized bed. From the look of the bed—the covers were thrown back to reveal rumpled white sheets, and one pillow was on the floor—Tom had occupied it earlier. One tall bedside lamp was turned on.

“You got out of bed for me,” Ronnie said, turning to face him. She stood in the middle of the room, in the narrow corridor between the bed and entertainment
center, and he was just a few paces behind her. “I’m sorry.”

He stopped, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets and rocking back on his heels a little as he met her gaze.

“Sit down while I try to figure out how we’re going to get you out of this mess.” He indicated one of the chairs behind her with a nod.

Ronnie smiled at him. His hair was rumpled, his cheeks and jaw were dark with stubble, and he looked both tired and harassed.

Instead of sitting down, she moved toward him. His eyes narrowed warily at her, and his hands came out of his pockets, but he held his ground.

“We could just—wait them out,” she suggested, stopping within touching distance. “They can’t stay there forever.”

“They don’t have to,” he said shortly. “You’re scheduled to give a speech at nine a.m., remember? If you don’t come out of your room, all dressed and ready to go, then I’d say they’re pretty safe in assuming you’re not in there.”

“Is that so scandalous? Maybe I slept somewhere else,” Ronnie pointed out with a shrug.

“The question is, where and with whom?” Tom’s voice was dry. “If they find out you’re not in your room, and decide to go after the story, that’s what they’ll be asking, believe me.”

“Maybe they’ll write that I’m sleeping with you.”

“Given that little comedy at the Yellow Dog, I’d say that’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” She reached out and hooked a
finger in the open collar of his shirt, her gaze on his as she undid his top button. “Would you?”

“I’d mind a whole hell of a lot,” he said, imprisoning her hand with his before it could do any more damage. “Particularly since it wouldn’t be true.”

“We could make it true.” She stepped closer, until their bodies almost touched. Her free hand came up to caress his cheek. The pad of her thumb stroked the corner of his mouth.

“Ronnie …” His voice was a warning. “Stop.”

“I don’t want to,” she said. Coming up on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his mouth.

Chapter
15

F
OR A MOMENT HE JUST STOOD THERE
, unmoving, while her hand slid behind his neck and her mouth coaxed his. She watched his reaction from beneath lowered lids. His eyes were open and fixed on her face. When her tongue slid between his closed lips, he stiffened. She could sense resistance in every hard line of his body; she worked her fingers down inside his shirt collar at the back of his neck, caressing his warm skin. At the same time, she drew his lower lip into her mouth and bit down.

Dark color suffused his face. He made an inarticulate sound. Then his lids shut, his mouth opened, and the hand that held hers prisoner between their bodies released its grip to slide around her waist. He took control of the kiss with a thoroughness that dazzled her. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close and slanted his mouth across hers, kissing her with a raw hunger that made her quiver with pleasure. Locking her own arms around his neck, she kissed him back.

His lips were firm, and dry, and excitingly expert.
The inside of his mouth was hot and wet and tasted of beer. The arms holding her close were strong; his body was bigger than hers, and hard where hers was soft. She slid her fingers through the hair at the back of his head. The strands were short and silky.

When he lifted his head, she smiled up into his eyes. His gaze moved over her face, touching on each individual feature, lingering, on her mouth. His arms were taut around her, flattening her breasts against his chest. His hips and thighs molded her own. She could feel the urgency in him, the tension in the arms that held her, the rigidity of his shoulders and back. She could feel the telltale hardness of him pressing against her abdomen. His face was flushed and his eyes were dark with desire.

He wanted her. There was no mistaking that.

“Tom,” she whispered.

His eyes darkened still more. His jaw tensed.

“Ronnie.” He said her name in echo of the way she said his, almost as if he were mocking her, or himself. But there was passion in his voice and, she thought, a kind of tenderness too.

Her hands slipped beneath the edge of his suit coat, sliding it from his shoulders. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, and again she thought he meant to resist. But he let her go for just long enough to shrug out of it. The coat dropped with a faint rustle to the floor. She went to work on his shirt buttons, then slid her hands inside his shirt, stroking the hair-roughened chest she bared.

“Ronnie.” His voice was rougher this time, lower, deeper, with an edge of warning to it. But he did nothing
to stop her. He liked the way she was touching him, she could tell.

His skin was scalding hot, and faintly damp with perspiration. The underlying muscles were hard. His eyes glittered restlessly as he watched her. His hands curved on either side of her waist.

His shirt was unbuttoned perhaps three-quarters of the way when she slid her hand down under his belt buckle.

He caught his breath, and caught her hand, too, pulling it out and away from his body. His eyes blazed down at her. For a moment he went so still he could have been a stone statue except for the bright blue flame in his eyes. Then he released her hand. His arms came back around her, and he kissed her again, bending her back over his arm, his mouth hard and demanding. Ronnie clung to him, kissing him back greedily. Her head spun, her knees felt weak, and her body quaked with desire.

His hold shifted, and he swung her clean off her feet. Ronnie’s eyes opened in surprise. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck, thrilling to the ease with which he carried her over to the bed. With one hand he pulled the covers out of the way. Then he bent to lay her gently on the mattress. Her arms around his neck pulled him down with her. Sitting beside her, leaning over her, he kissed her mouth, her neck, her ear. Ronnie arched her back as his mouth found her collarbone where it was left bare by the scoop neckline of her T-shirt.

“God, you smell good,” he whispered against her skin, and lifted his head. Their eyes met.

Ronnie smiled at him. His hair was ruffled and his
eyes gleamed and he looked handsome and sexy and very male. Her gaze never leaving his, she reached down for the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it up over her head, then tossed it aside. All she wanted in life right at that moment was to be naked in his arms.

“You’re beautiful.” His breath came faster. His arms were braced on either side of her body as he leaned over her. His gaze slid down to her breasts. Her bra was an everyday, serviceable one of white nylon that covered her better than most of her swimsuit tops. She had nice breasts, full and firm and round without being overly large. Just now they were swelling against the confines of her bra, the nipples erect and clearly visible as they nudged at the thin material.

He looked up again, meeting her gaze. His body radiated heat. His jaw was hard and set, and his eyes gleamed.

Without warning he got to his feet.

“Tom,” she protested, reaching for him.

“You don’t want to go to bed with your shoes on,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

Quaking inside, her fingernails digging into the mattress, she lay still as he walked to the foot of the bed and slid his hand around one of her slim ankles. Lifting her foot in its high-heeled sandal, he balanced it against his thigh while his fingers worked at the strap. In just a moment the shoe was off. He bent his head, lifted her foot again, and pressed a kiss to her bare instep that sent lightning bolts of heat shooting up her leg. She shivered, closing her eyes. Then he gently replaced that foot on the mattress and picked up its fellow, repeating the operation. By the time she was barefoot, Ronnie thought her insides would melt.

Carrying her shoes, he returned to the head of the bed. His face was flushed, his hair untidy, his eyes dark. At their backs was some emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. Desire was there, hard and hungry, and it was stamped on his face
too
—but there was something else as well.

Something that she was too turned on by to try to decipher.

He put her shoes on the nightstand, placing the leather confections carefully side by side, then turned and stood looking down at her for a moment. His shirt was unbuttoned all the way now, so that she could see the hard muscles of his chest and the wedge of dark brown hair that covered them. One shirttail hung free of his pants. Ronnie moved a little on the mattress, wordlessly inviting him to join her. Her gaze locked with his.

“You are gorgeous, and sexy, and I want you so damn much it gives the term blue balls a whole new meaning,” he said. Passion roughened his voice and hardened his expression, but there was a touch of ruefulness there, too, that did not quite fit the situation.