Til Death Do Us Part (40 page)

She slowly unbuttoned her short-sleeved, turquoise-and-yellow-striped blouse. “But you do, don't you, Simon? You like the fact that I'm a take-charge kind of woman.”

She removed her blouse and tossed it on the ground. Roarke didn't take his eyes off her, focusing for the moment on her yellow satin bra.

“Yeah, honey, I like it. As a matter of fact, your bossiness turns me on.”

Her gaze focused on his broad, muscular chest. She sucked in a deep breath. “I brought you here so we could go skinny-dipping.”

“Is that so?”

“I want you to take off all your clothes, and then I want you to undress me.” She looked at him, unsmiling, a dead-serious gleam in her eyes. “Turnabout is fair play.”

“Whatever you want, Boss Lady.” He unbuttoned his blue cotton shirt and threw it on top of Cleo's blouse.

As he slowly took off his clothes, he watched her, and loved the reactions she couldn't hide. As soon as he
stripped off his shirt, she clenched and unclenched her hands. He knew she wanted to touch him, to run her fingers over his chest.

He removed the leather hip holster and laid his Beretta on the ground. Cleo's gaze followed his every action.

He unbuckled his belt and unsnapped his jeans. Cleo swallowed hard. He lowered the zipper. Cleo's mouth opened to a soft oval. He sat down on the ground and removed his boots and socks, then rose to his feet. Cleo took a nervous step toward him. He dragged his jeans down his hips and over his long legs, then kicked them aside. Cleo sighed deeply. Turning around so that his back was to her, he bent over and eased off his briefs. Taking his time, he turned back around and faced her in all his gloriously naked splendor. Cleo licked her lips.

A fine film of moisture coated her upper lip and forehead. Roarke knew her perspiration had little to do with the warm sunshine and a great deal to do with sexual heat. Cleo's body was a low-burning fire, easily stoked to a full blaze by her desire for him.

He loved knowing how much she wanted him.

Roarke stood before her, unmoving, like some bronze statue, his body honed to perfection. He was tempting her, she realized, waiting for her to succumb, to give in to her own wanton longings. But this was her game, and they were damn well going to play by her rules.

If anyone begged for mercy, it was going to be Simon Alloway Roarke. She intended to make him as hot as she was. She wanted to see his big, hard body drenched with perspiration. And Cleo knew exactly what to do to make him sweat.

“Come here, Simon,” she commanded, like a queen giving orders to a servant.

He strutted toward her, shoulders and back straight,
head held high, his long legs moving with the same muscular grace with which the Arabians trotted. Proud. Strong. Magnificent.

Control, Cleo cautioned herself. Control. She could so easily lose herself in Roarke's overwhelming masculinity. Everything female within her was drawn to that powerful male aura. When they were alone together, nothing existed except the two of them. No marriage of convenience. No plotting, conniving relatives. No family and business responsibilities. No regrets about the past. No plans for the future. Only the here and now. Only this wild, free passion that drove them to madness—and beyond.

When he was within a few inches of bringing their bodies close enough to touch, he stopped and looked down at her. “Is this where you want me?”

“Yes.” She looked up at him. “Now, take off my clothes.”

His gaze met hers. Radiant blue and warm amber-flecked green clashed in a battle of wills. They spoke without words, each understanding the other perfectly. Physically, he was much larger and a great deal stronger, but she possessed strengths that neither he nor any man possessed. She was woman. Keeper of men's souls. Guardian of untold treasures. Loving angel and vengeful she-devil. Earth mother and fiery temptress.

He clenched and unclenched his shaky hands, then reached out and loosened her leather belt. She shivered. He unsnapped and unzipped her jeans, then slipped his hands beneath the waistband, cupping the upper sides of her hips. He glanced up at her yellow bra. Her chest rose and fell with labored breaths. He eased her jeans downward, letting them ride low on her hips. Spreading his hands across her stomach, he rotated them in a caressing circle. When she sighed with pleasure, he knelt before her.

“You'd better brace yourself, Boss Lady.” Lifting her hands, he placed them on his bare shoulders.

He picked up her right foot, tugged on her boot and jerked it and her sock off, and pulled her jean-clad leg free, then repeated the process with her other foot. Cleo gripped his shoulders, loving the hot, hard strength of his body.

Leaning low, he kissed first one and then her other knee. She swayed. He kissed a damp, moist trail up her right thigh, over her yellow satin bikini panties, across her naked belly and upward to the V of her bra. Reaching around her, he unhooked the scrap of yellow satin and slid the straps down her shoulders. Her high, firm breasts fell free, exposed to the sun's heat, the breeze's warm breath and Roarke's piercing stare. He threw the bra on the ground, then cupped her breasts.

Cleo's body tightened, then released. A purely feminine tingling radiated upward from her central core.

Using the pads of his thumbs, he played with her nipples until they peaked in hard, throbbing points and begged for his mouth. He answered their plea, tormenting one nipple with his tongue while his fingertips toyed with the other.

Cleo moaned, the painful pleasure was so intense. “Simon!”

Halting the sensual torture, he lifted his head and looked at her. “I'm sorry, Boss Lady. I got a little sidetracked by your beautiful breasts. Don't worry, I'm going to finish what I started.” He slid his hands inside the back of her panties, kneading her buttocks.

He was killing her by slow degrees, but she knew, despite his iron-will performance, that he was getting closer and closer to losing control. He could not hide his aroused
state. His manhood stood at attention, hard and pulsating, passionate moisture trickling from the tip.

He took his own sweet time removing her panties, his hands caressing their way downward, his fingertips giving off electrical energy that sent shock waves through her body.

When her panties fell down to her ankles, she kicked them aside and reached out for Roarke. When she touched him intimately, he growled like a beast in pain.

She smiled as she encompassed him, stroking him with her closed hand. He jerked. Running her thumb across the tip, she spread the juice around his shaft.

“Dammit, woman!” Roarke hauled her up against him, but when he tried to lift her, she pulled away, then quickly dropped to her knees. He gazed down at her, his vision slightly blurred from the raging desire boiling inside him. “Don't tease me, honey. Not about this.”

And that was the last coherent thing Simon Roarke was able to say for quite some time. Cleo played with him, tormenting him with her tongue, promising but not fulfilling, until Roarke's big body trembled. He was a mighty oak ready to fall. All it would take was one tiny push. One sweet, sweet tiny little push.

He grabbed the back of her head, urging her to give what she had promised. Threading his fingers through her hair, he pressed her face toward his body.

She made love to him with her mouth, tenderly, thoroughly, learning from his grunts and sighs what he preferred and what he didn't want. She brought him to the very edge, then hesitated, her own body quivering with need. Then she pushed him over the edge, headlong into earth-shattering release.

When some measure of sanity returned to him, he lifted her off her feet and up into his arms. His mouth
took hers in a frenzy, feeding off her passion. He tasted himself on her lips, on her tongue, and his body reawakened. How was it possible? he wondered. He was damn near forty years old. Maybe he should remind a certain part of his anatomy that men his age couldn't make such a quick recovery.

Roarke carried her to the edge of the creek and set her on the grassy bank, letting her feet and calves hang over into the water. He walked into the creek, then lifted her to straddle his hips and eased the two of them into the water. She cried out when he entered her, surprised that he was ready again so soon. He guided her movements, back and forth, splashing the water around them. With her legs wrapped around his hips and her arms draped loosely around his neck, Cleo allowed Roarke complete control. The sensations mounted inside her quickly. He plunged deeper and harder, pounding into her until she screamed her pleasure.

The aftershocks of her fulfillment pelted him. He drove into her repeatedly, with quick, hard lunges, then jetted his release into her receptive body.

They clung together, their bodies shaky, their breathing harsh. Roarke supported her weight with his strength, and she was glad because her bones had melted and offered no support.

Gradually their weakness diminished and Roarke carried her out of the creek and up onto the grass. The horses grazed contentedly nearby. Roarke looked around for a secluded spot and spied two weeping willows, their long, feathery branches overlapping where they touched the ground. He carried Cleo inside the verdant cocoon, placed her on the warm, soft grass and lay down beside her. She reached over and clasped his hand.

They lay there, side by side, for several minutes. Nei
ther of them speaking. Each listening to the other one's breathing. They dozed off and slept until the sun was high in the sky.

Rousing from her nap, Cleo gently awakened Roarke. “Let's don't go back to the house,” she said. “Let's stay out here all day. If anyone needs to find us, Willie knows where we are.”

“I can't think of anything I'd rather do than lie here under this willow with you all day. Both of us naked.” He stroked the underside of her wrist with his thumb. “But we can't hide out here forever. Sooner or later, we'll have to go back and face what's waiting for us.”

“What's waiting for us is my family, who have suddenly started acting like a Stepford family. Like sweet, docile robots.” Cleo shook her head. “And I dread the thought of Aunt Beatrice finding out that Uncle Perry is the sheriff's number-one suspect.”

“She still loves him, doesn't she?” Roarke ran his fingers through his hair.

“Yes, I'm afraid she does.”

“But you're not still in love with Paine Emerson and you were never in love with Hugh Winfield. Is that right?”

Cleo braced her elbow on the ground, placing her body in a half sitting, half lying position. She gazed directly into Roarke's questioning eyes. “That's right. Despite the strong family resemblance, I am not a carbon copy of my aunt Beatrice. I'm not the type to spend my whole life pining away for a man I could never have. Besides, I wouldn't have Paine Emerson now if he threw himself at my feet and begged me to forgive him.”

Roarke positioned himself on one elbow and turned toward Cleo, his body mimicking the way hers rested on the bed of grass beneath them. “What about Hugh Winfield?”

“What about Hugh?”

“Any regrets where he's concerned?”

“Only that I ever dated him in the first place,” she said. “We've been friends since we were kids, but I never seriously considered going out with him. Not until Uncle George suggested it.”

“Uncle George wanted you to marry Hugh.” Roarke broke off a blade of grass and put it in his mouth.

“Uncle George wanted to make sure I didn't make the same mistake his daughter made. He was damned and determined to see me married and a mother. He truly believed I'd never be happy otherwise.”

“He must have hated Perry Sutton for hurting Beatrice the way he did. What I can't understand is why your uncle George allowed Oralie and her family to live with him.” Roarke removed the blade of grass from his mouth and ran the tip up and down between Cleo's breasts.

Her nipples hardened instantly. “I'm sure Uncle George did hate Uncle Perry for years, but after time passed and he saw that Perry paid dearly for his mistake every day of his life, then Uncle George's attitude mellowed. He never forgave Uncle Perry, but I think, in the end, he pitied him.

“To understand the situation fully, you have to know that my father and Aunt Oralie had lived with Uncle George since their early teens, after their parents died. Uncle George was really a father to his brother's children as well as to his own daughter. Would you believe that at one time Aunt Beatrice and Aunt Oralie were like sisters? Uncle George allowed Oralie to continue living with him because Aunt Beatrice asked him not to kick her out. Uncle Perry had very little money at the time and Aunt Oralie has always had very expensive tastes.”

“Beatrice is a remarkable woman,” Roarke said. “Not many in her position would have been so generous.”

“That's the kind of person she is. Loving and forgiving to a fault.”

“Let's keep our suspicions and Sheriff Bacon's from Beatrice as long as we possibly can.” Roarke ran the blade of grass across Cleo's tight nipples.

She gasped as the tingling sensation in her nipples raced downward. “I agree, but sooner or later, she's bound to find out. Especially if Uncle Perry really is guilty.”

“You know, Cleo, despite all the circumstantial evidence against him, my gut instincts tell me that Perry Sutton didn't place those spiders in your towels and he didn't poison your tea.” Roarke repeatedly raked the grass blade across Cleo's nipples.

She grabbed his hand. He looked at her and grinned, then pulled free and threw away the blade of grass.

“Why would an intelligent man, who is an entomology expert, with free access to the science lab where the spiders were kept, be foolish enough to take such a risk?” Roarke reached out and lifted an unruly strand of hair off Cleo's cheek. “And why on earth would a man use an outdated rodenticide, which he kept in his own greenhouse, to poison your tea?”

“It's almost as if someone were trying to set him up. But who? Why would Trey or Daphne set up their own father? And Lord knows, Aunt Oralie wouldn't. She couldn't survive without Uncle Perry's constant attention.”