Читать книгу Man of the Hour: Night Of Love - Diana Palmer - Страница 8

David’s remark made sense until he escorted Meg into the restaurant where Steve—surprisingly without a woman in tow—and a tall, very dark Arab in an expensive European suit were seated. The men stood up as Meg and David approached. The Arab’s gaze was approving. The puzzle pieces as to why Steve would be happy with her outfit fell into place.

“Remember that the Middle East isn’t exactly liberated territory,” David whispered. “You’re dressed very correctly for this evening.”

“Oh, boy,” she muttered angrily. If she’d thought about it, she’d have worn her backless yellow gown….

“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” the foreigner said with lazy delight as he was introduced to her. He smiled and his black mustache twitched. He was incredibly handsome, with eyes that were large and almost a liquid black. He was charming without being condescending or offensive. “You are a dancer, I believe? A ballerina?”

“Yes,” Meg murmured demurely. She smiled at him. “And you are the representative of your country?”

He quirked an eyebrow and glanced at Steve. “Indeed, I am.”

“Do tell me about your part of the world,” she said with genuine interest, totally ignoring Steve and her brother.

He did, to the exclusion of business, until Steve sat glowering at her over dessert and coffee. She shifted a little uncomfortably under that cold look, and Ahmed suddenly noticed his business colleague.

He chuckled softly. “Steven, my friend, I digress. Forgive me. But mademoiselle is such charming company that she chases all thought of business from my poor mind.”

“No harm done,” Steve replied quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Meg said genuinely. “I didn’t mean to distract you, but I do find your culture fascinating. You’re very well educated,” Meg said.

He smiled. “Oxford, class of ’82.”

She sighed. “Perhaps I should have gone to college instead of trying to study ballet.”

“What a sad loss to the world of the arts if that had been so, mademoiselle. Historians are many. Good dancers, alas, are like diamonds.”

Her cheeks flushed with flattery and excitement.

Steven’s fingers closed around his fork and he stared at it. “About these new jets we’re selling you, Ahmed,” he persisted.

“Yes, we must discuss them. I have been led astray by a lovely face and a kind heart.” He smiled at Meg. “But my duty will not allow me to divert my interests too radically from my purpose in coming here. You will forgive us if we turn our minds to the matter at hand, mademoiselle?”

“Of course,” she replied softly.

“Kind of you,” Steven murmured, his dagger glance saying much more than the polite words.

“For you, Steven, anything,” she replied in kind.

The evening was both long and short. All too soon, David found himself accompanying the tall Arab back to his suite at the hotel while Steven appropriated Meg and eased her into the passenger seat of his Jaguar.

“Why is it always a Jaguar?” she asked curiously when he was inside and the engine was running.

“I like Jaguars.”

“You would.”

He pulled the sleek car out into traffic. “Leave Ahmed alone,” he said without preamble.

“Ah. I’m being warned off.” She nodded. “It’s perfectly obvious that you consider me a woman of international intrigue, out to filch top-secret information and sell it to enemy agents.” She frowned. “Who is the enemy these days, anyway?”

“Mata Hari, you aren’t.”

“Don’t insult me. I have potential.” She struck a pose, with her hand suspended behind her nape and her perfect facial profile toward him. “With a little careful tutoring, I could be devastating.”

“With a little careful tutoring, you could be concealed in an oil drum and floated down the river to Oklahoma.”

“You have no sense of humor.”

He shrugged. “Not much to laugh about these days. Not in my life.”

She leaned her cheek against the soft seat and watched him as he controlled the powerful car. It was odd that she always felt safe with him. Safe, and excited beyond words. Just looking at him made her tremble.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That I’m sorry you never made love to me,” she said without thinking.

The car swerved and his face tautened. He never looked at her. “Don’t do that.”

She drew in a slow breath, tracing patterns in the upholstery. “Aren’t you, really?”

“You might have been addictive. I don’t like addiction.”

“That’s why you smoke,” she agreed, staring pointedly at the glowing cigarette in his lean, dark hand.

He did glance at her then, to glare. “I’m not addicted to nicotine. I can quit anytime I feel like it.”

“What’s wrong with right now?”

His dark eyes narrowed.

“What’s wrong? Are you afraid you can’t do without it?” she coaxed.

He pressed the power window switch, then threw the cigarette out when there was an opening. The window went back up again.

Meg grinned at him. “You’ll be shaking in seconds,” she predicted. “Combing the floor for old cigarette butts with a speck of tobacco left in them. Begging stubs from strangers.”

“Unwise, Meg.”

“What is? Taunting you?”

“I might decide to find another way to occupy my hands,” he said suggestively.

She threw her arms out to the sides and closed her eyes. “Go ahead!” she invited theatrically. “Ravish me!”

The car slammed to a halt and Meg’s eyes opened as wide as cups. She stared at him, horrified.

He lifted an eyebrow as her arms clutched her breasts and a blush flamed on her face.

“Why, Meg, is anything wrong?” he asked pleasantly. “I just stopped to let the ambulance by.”

“What amb—”

Sirens and flashing red lights swept past them and vanished quickly into the distance. Meg felt like sinking through the floorboard with embarrassment.

Steven’s eyes narrowed just a little. He looped one long arm over the back of her seat and studied her in the darkened car.

“All bluff, aren’t you?” he chided. “Didn’t I warn you that playing games with me would get you into trouble?”

“Yes,” she said. “But you’ve done nicely without me for four years.”

He didn’t answer. His hand lowered to her throat and he toyed with a wisp of her hair that had come loose from her bun, teasing her skin until her pulse began to race and her body grew hot in the tense silence.

“Steven, don’t,” she whispered huskily, staying his hand.

“Let me excite you, Meg,” he replied quietly. He moved closer, easing her hand aside. His mouth poised over hers and he began all over again, teasing, touching, just at her throat while his coffee-scented breath came into her mouth and made her body ache. “It was like this the first night I took you out. Do you remember?” His voice was a deep, soft caress, and his hand made her shiver with its tender tracing. “I parked the car in your own driveway after we’d had dinner. I touched you, just like this, while we talked. You were more impulsive then, much less inhibited. Do you remember what you did, Meg?”

She was finding it difficult to talk and breathe at the same time. “I was very…young,” she said, defending herself.

“You were hungry.” His lips parted and brushed her mouth open, softly nibbling at it until he heard the sound she made deep in her throat. “You unbuttoned my shirt and slid your hand inside it, right down to my waist.”

She shivered, remembering what that had triggered. His mouth had hit hers like a tidal wave, with a groan that echoed in the silence of the car. He’d lifted her, turned her, and his hand had gone down inside the low bodice of her black dress to cup her naked breast. She’d come to her senses all too soon, fighting the intimacy. He’d stopped at once, and he’d smiled down at her as she lay panting in his arms, on fire with the first total desire she’d ever felt in her life. He’d known. Then, and now…

“You were so innocent,” he said quietly, remembering. “You had no idea why I reacted so violently to such a little caress. It was like the first time I let you feel me against you when I was fully aroused. You were shocked and frightened.”

“My parents never told me anything, and my girlfriends were just as stupid as I was, they made sure of it,” she said hesitantly. “All the reading in the world doesn’t prepare you for what happens, for what you feel when a man touches you intimately.”

His hand smoothed over the shoulder of her black dress, back to the zipper. Slowly, gently, he eased it down, controlling her panicked movement with careless ease.

“It’s been four years and you want it,” he said. “You want me.”

She couldn’t believe that she was allowing him to do this! She felt like a zombie as he eased the fabric below the soft, lacy cup of her strapless bra and looked at her. His big, lean hand, darkly tanned, stroked her collarbone and down, smoothing over the swell of her breasts while he looked at her in the semidarkness.

His mouth touched her forehead. His breath was a little unsteady. So was hers.

“Let me unhook it, Meg. I want you in my mouth.”

This had always been his sharpest weapon, this way of talking to her that made her body burn with dark, wicked desires. Her forehead rested against his chin while his fingers quickly disposed of three small hooks. She felt the cool air on her body even as he moved her back and looked down, his posture suddenly stiff and poised, controlled.

“My God.” It was reverent, the way he spoke, the way he looked at her. His hands contracted on her shoulders as if he were afraid that she might vanish.

“I let you look at me…that last night,” she whispered unsteadily. “And you went to her!”

“No. No,” he whispered, bending his head. “No, Meg!”

His mouth fastened on her taut nipple and he groaned as he lifted her, turned her, suckling her in a silence that blazed with tension and promise.

Her fingers gripped his thick hair and held on while his mouth gave her the most intense pleasure she’d ever known. He’d tried to kiss her this way that long-ago night and she’d fought him. It had been too much for her already overloaded senses and, coupled with his raging arousal and the sudden determination of his weight on her body, she’d panicked. But she was older now, with four years of abstinence to heighten her need, strip her nerves raw. She was starved for him.

His mouth fed on her while his fingers traced around the firm softness he was enjoying. She felt his tongue, his teeth, the slow suction that seemed to draw the heart right out of her body. She shuddered, helpless, anguished, as the ardent pressure of his mouth only made the hunger grow.

He felt her tremble and slowly lifted his head.

“Noo…!” She choked, clutching at him, trying to draw his mouth back to her body. “Steve…please…please!”

He drew her face into his throat and held her, his arms punishing, his breath as ragged as her own.

“Please!” she sobbed, clinging.

“Here…!” He fought the buttons of his shirt open and dragged her inside it, pressing her close to him, so that her bare breasts were rubbing against the thick hair on his chest, teasing his tense muscles. “Meg,” he breathed tenderly. “Oh, Meg, Meg…!” His hands found their way around her, sweeping down her bare back in long, hungry caresses that made the intimacy even more dangerous, more threatening.

Her mouth pressed soft kisses into his throat, his neck, his collarbone, and she felt the need like a knife.

He turned her head and kissed her again, a long, slow, deep kiss that never seemed to end while around them the night darkened and the wind blew.

Somewhere in the middle of it, she began to cry—great, broken sobs of guilt and grief and unappeased hunger. He held her, cradled her against him, his eyes as anguished as his unsatisfied body. But slowly, finally, the desire in both of them began to relax.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered, kissing the tears from her eyes. “It was inevitable.”

She turned her face so that he could kiss the other side of it, her eyes closed while she savored the rare, exquisite tenderness.

When she felt his lips reluctantly draw away, she opened her eyes and looked into his. They were soft, just for her, just for the moment. Soft and hungry, and somehow violent.

“You’re untouched,” he said huskily, his face setting into hard, familiar lines. “Even here.” His hand smoothed over her bare, swollen breast and as if the feel of it drove him mad, he bent his head and tenderly drew his lips over it, breathing in the scent of her body. “Totally, absolutely untouched.”

“I…can’t feel like this with any other man,” she confessed, shaken to her soul by what they were sharing. “I can’t bear another man’s eyes to touch me, much less his hands.”

His breath drew in raggedly. “Why in God’s name did you leave, damn you?”

“I was afraid!”

“Of this?” His mouth opened over her nipple and she cried out at the flash of pleasure it gave her to feel it so intimately.

“I was a virgin,” she gasped.

“You still are.” He drew her across him, one big hand gathering her hips blatantly into the hard thrust of his, holding her there while he searched her eyes. “And you’re still afraid,” he said finally, watching the shocked apprehension grow on her face. “Terrified of intimacy with me.”

She swallowed, then swallowed again. Her eyes dropped to his bare chest. “Not…of that.”

“Then what?”

His body throbbed. She could feel the heat and power of it and she felt faint with the knowledge of how desperately he wanted her. “Steven, my sister died in childbirth.”

“Yes, I know. Your father told me. It was such a private thing, I didn’t feel it was my place to ask questions. I just know she was twelve years older than you.”

She looked up at him. “She was…like me,” she whispered slowly. “Thin and slender, not very big in the hips at all. They lived up north. It snowed six feet the winter she was ready to deliver and her husband couldn’t get her to a hospital in time. She died. So did the baby.” Meg hesitated, nibbling her lower lip. “Childbirth is difficult for the women in my family. My mother had to have a cesarean section when I was born. I was very sheltered and after my sister died, mother made it sound as if pregnancy would be a death sentence for me, too. She made me terrified of getting pregnant,” she added miserably, hiding her face from him.

He eased his intimate hold on her, stunned. His hand guided her cheek to his broad, hair-roughened chest and he held her there, letting her feel the heat of his body, the heavy slam of his heart under her ear.

“We never discussed this.”

“I was very young, as you said,” she replied, closing her eyes. “I couldn’t tell you. It was so intimate a thing to say, and I was already overwhelmed by you physically. Every time you touched me, I went light-headed and hot and shaky all over.” Her eyes closed. “I still do.”

His fingers tangled gently in her hair, comforting now instead of arousing. “I could have reassured you, if you’d only told me.”

“Perhaps.” She nuzzled her cheek against him. “But I had terrors of getting pregnant, and you came on very strong that night. The argument…seemed like a reprieve at the time. You told me to get out, and then you took Daphne to a public place so that it would be in all the papers. I told myself that choosing dancing made more sense than choosing you. It made it easier to go away.”

He lifted his head, staring out the darkened window. Seconds later, he looked down at her, his eyes lingering on her breasts.

She smiled sadly. “You don’t believe me, do you? You’re still bitter, Steven.”

“You don’t think I’m entitled to be?”

She shifted against him, her eyes adoring his hard face, totally at peace with him even in this intimacy now. “I didn’t think you cared enough to be hurt.”

“I didn’t,” he agreed readily. “But my pride took a few blows.”

“Nicole said you got drunk…”

He smiled cruelly. “Did she add that I was with Daphne at the time?”

She stiffened, hating him.

His warm hand covered her breast blatantly, feeling her heartbeat race even through her anger. He searched her eyes. “I still want you,” he said flatly. “More than ever.”

She knew it. His face was alive with desire. “It wouldn’t be wise,” she said quietly. “As you once said, Steven, addictions are best avoided.”

“You flatter yourself if you think I’m crazy enough to become addicted to you again,” he said with a faintly mocking smile as all the anguish of those four years sat on him.

Meg was arrested by his expression. The mention of the past seemed to have brought all the bitterness back, all the anger. She didn’t know what to say. “Steven…”

His hand pressed closer, warm against her bare skin in the faint chill of the car. “Your ballet company needs money. All right, Meg,” he said softly. “I’ll get you out of the hole.”

“You will!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, yes. I’ll be your company angel. But there’s a price.”

His voice was too silky. She felt the apprehension as if it were tangible. “What is the price?” she asked.

“Can’t you figure it out?” he asked with faint hauteur in his smile. “Then I’ll tell you. Sleep with me. Give me one night, Meg, to get you out of my system. And in return, I’ll give you back your precious dancing.”