It was almost as if she loved him.
His uncanny knack for reading thoughts didn't fail him.
Without moving his body, he turned his head and pierced her with his cerulean eyes.
Her own eyes were wide with the confusion that swept over her. Unaware of what she was doing, she slowly shook her head in denial of the unpredicted emotions coursing through her. Her trembling lips formed his name, but no sound came out. A tear, crowded by the others that were flooding her eyes, slipped over the lower lid and rolled down her pale cheek.
Lance left the window and walked toward the bed. His eyes locked on hers. "Erin?" Her name was barely audible even in the still room.
Then he was beside her, leaning down, supporting himself on still arms spread wide on either side of her. "Erin, why are you crying?" he demanded softly.
"I don't know," she breathed.
"Yes, you do. Why, Erin? Tell me."
She couldn't face him with the knowledge of her love so evident in her eyes. She bowed her head, shaking it again. "I don't know," she said with the barest expulsion of breath.
He lifted her chin with his index finger, forcing her to look at him. "Tell me to go away. Tell me this is insane."
"This is insane," she whispered. Her heart was thudding. All she could see, wanted to see, was his face only inches from hers.
"Tell me to go away," he grated.
"No," she said, shaking her head in refusal. "I can't."
"Then God help us." The words were scarcely out of his mouth before it was fused with hers.
The mattress sank under his weight as he lay down beside her and gathered her to him. Wasting no time with subtleties, he covered her mouth with his. An insistent tongue pushed past her lips and pillaged the honeyed crevices of her mouth, claiming it as his.
When the initial hunger had been appeased and owner-ship established, he sipped her slowly. His tongue lifted the remnants of tears off her face, then lingered to taste each feature of her face, her ears, her neck.
She cradled his face between her hands and looked up at him with dark, liquid eyes, swimming with unstemmed, but as yet unshed, tears. "Lance," she luxuriated in saying his name. "Lance, Lance." Raising her head slightly, she kissed the cleft in his chin and aggravated his bottom lip with her teeth until he groaned and pressed her down into the pillows once again, covering her with his body, his mouth fastened onto hers.
Holding her tightly, he rolled them over until Erin was looking down into his face. His hands roamed her back, along her thighs, and over her hips, pressing her ever closer. She adjusted herself over him with a precision so maddening that it forced the breath out of his lungs only to be caught in his throat.
She nibbled at his neck and the triangle at its base was thoroughly explored by a rapacious tongue. Unable to stand any more, he entwined his fingers in her dark hair and raised her mouth to his. Breathless and laughing from sheer joy, he rolled them over onto their sides until they were facing each other. Their heads shared the same pillow. Fingers traced; noses nuzzled; mouths nibbled. They relished each other.
Timidly, Erin raised her hands to the necktie knotted below his top shirt button. With awkward fingers, she loosed it until she could ease it over his head. He accom-modated her by raising his head off the pillow. He could be patient with her blunderings. He had all the time in the world.
Her fingers worked with the buttons on his shirt until they were all undone. Then she pushed the smooth cotton aside. She studied him for a moment. He was so boldly virile that she knew a moment of shyness. "I think you're beautifully made, Lance," she said unevenly.
Still timid, but tempted beyond endurance, she placed her hands on him and combed through the thick mat of tawny hair on his chest with her fingers.
"You have a gray hair!" she exclaimed. "Right here,"
she said, tweaking the novelty.
"Ouch! That's attached, you know."
"How old are you?" she asked, soothingly rubbing the spot where she had pulled the hair.
"Thirty-seven."
"I thought you were thirty-three. But that's when I thought you were Ken."
"Nope. I'm an old man. Much too old for you." His fingers were memorizing her collarbone.
"I've always had a penchant for antiques," she teased, as her hands smoothed over the hard muscles beneath the furred skin.
He indulged her idle, playful exploration until she touched his nipples with inquisitive fingers. His breath hissed out from between his lips and he caught her hands and pressed them over the hard, distended buds.
"You're not playing fair," he scolded her tenderly and kissed her briefly on the mouth.
"Teach me the rules," she taunted softly.
He raised her hands and wrapped her arms around his neck. The twelve tiny pearl buttons that formed a neat row from the yoke of her nightgown to her waist taxed his patience. But when he was finished, he paused for a moment, savoring the anticipation before he separated the folds of wispy fabric.
His eyes wandered leisurely over her, and Erin wondered at her own immodesty. Even when his fingers followed the path his eyes had charted, she could conjure up no inhibitions.
Gently he cupped her breasts in his hands and lifted them slightly. Heavy lids screened her eyes as his thumbs stroked her until she felt herself tauten under this bewitching manipulation.
"You're beautiful," he sighed. "Just as I knew you were. Just as I
felt
you were."
Her throat hurt with the constricted muscles unable to contain her emotion. Her fingers outlined his lips as she entreated him, "Please," and drew his head down to her.
His mouth was wet and hot as he closed it over the rose-tinted crest. He tugged on her gently, then tortured her with his flicking tongue. His hand was at the small of her back, urging her hips against the hard tension in his.
When she moved so eagerly and naturally against him, a deep moan issued out of his throat and in desperation he clasped her to him.
He heard that now familiar purring in her throat that made the blood pound in his veins. That sound, her scent, the feel and taste of her, filled his brain and obliterated every rational, reasonable, responsible thought. Even as he argued with himself that this was lunacy, he was helplessly drowning in the essence of Erin O'Shea.
He left the bed only long enough to strip off his clothes.
Erin studied him and experienced no fearful dread even when his aroused virility was fully revealed. Carefully he sat down on the bed and eased the nightgown off her shoulders and down her body. His eyes were hungry and devoured every inch of her before he lay down, blanketing her body with his.
They had both come home.
Their breaths mingled and spiraled above them as they each released a long, contented sigh. Lance buried his face between her breasts and held her tightly. Erin's arms wound around his back. His naked masculinity so complemented her femininity th
at they both gloried in the con
trasts—hair-roughened skin against silkiness, hard muscle against soft curve, throbbing power against a welcoming vulnerability.
His hands began a sensuous assault, thrilling her with every touch. They found her breasts and massaged them gently, then grew bolder and teased the responsive nipples into hardness. Lowering his head, he took her nipple between his lips and laved it with his tongue until she heard soft cries of bliss and realized that they had come from her own lips.
Murmuring his name, Erin arched and writhed along his large body, but he held her away from him by placing his hand on her stomach, his thumb between her ribs. He started a slow, mesmerizing descent. How could a hand, fingers, a thumb possess such provocative powers? Yet when they continued downward to discover the secrets of her body, it was she who gasped at the revelations.
Without persuasion, she countenanced a more thorough exploration. Sweetly he tormented her. His fingers deftly separated the protective petals and tenderly stroked that center of her desire that was moist and yielding. "Erin," was all he said, but the wonder in his voice conveyed a million unspoken meanings.
Arching against him, she cried his name. Or was it merely an echo that reverberated in her brain? Hearing her plea, whether vocal or silent, he greeted it with an obliging thrust.
Then he became perfectly still and looked down into her eyes with disbelief.
"My God, Erin. Why didn't you tell me?" he asked in a soft, urgent whisper.
"I didn't think it was important," she answered in kind.
He searched her eyes with his. "You're wrong. It's very important."
"I don't mean to minimize its importance. It's just that right now it doesn't matter."
"What does matter?"
She touched his face with trembling fingers. "Being good for you."
"Oh God," he breathed as he kissed her and broke that last seal of her innocence.
They moved together as though choreographed, in perfect synchronization, each bringing the other to the height of ecstasy and filling a need that hadn't even been realized until now.
There was no explanation for this spontaneous act of love. Had they taken the time to examine their motivations, they couldn't have found a logical reason for it.
They were victims of an ancient force that made no apology or justification for its being. It didn't even exist until it was born between two people. And that was justification enough.
Patiently whispering words, the meanings of which were unintelligible and unimportant, Lance encouraged her, bringing her to a destiny she couldn't have anticipated. When she reached it, he joined her on the crest of the wave, and she felt his full magnificence fill a void deep inside her.
He didn't leave her immediately. His breathing was harsh and uneven in her ear as he nuzzled it with his feverish face. He held her tenderly, but possessively. Did he think she was a mirage? The stroking hands that celebrated her body seemed to fear that she would evaporate at any moment.
When she adjusted her hips more comfortably under his weight, he made a moaning sound that diminished into a shuddering sigh of delight. An answering passion cham-pioned her original dismay when he began to move inside her again.
Finally when they were totally spent and their breathing had returned to normal, he left that warm, silken harbor. With their legs entwined, he pulled her close and nestled her head against his chest.
"Are you okay?" he asked. His fingers traveled up and down her spine.
"Slightly better than okay," she said.
A deep chuckle rumbled in her ear and she raised her head. "You're laughing," she said in surprise.
"Is that so unusual?" He quirked an eyebrow quizzically
─
"For you it is. You rarely smile, you know," she chided gently.
He smiled then, but his eyes were serious. "You make me smile," he whispered.
"Do I?"
"Yes. You do." He kissed her deeply. When her tongue darted past his and sought the interior of his mouth, he pushed away from her. "Erin, stop that or I won't be able to. And you're supposed to be sick." He got up from the bed and began to dress. "What kind of a cad do you take me for, to insinuate myself on a helpless, weak woman?
Besides all that, I'm on duty. Government business." His grin was decidedly wicked. "But this has been one helluva coffee break."
Erin giggled. "You're improving. You even made a joke."
He pulled on a pair of brief blue underwear. She sighed in the pleasure of watching him dress. "Somehow you never struck me as the type to wear such sexy underwear.
You look almost as good in it as you do out of it," she said impishly.
He cast a look at her that was mockingly stern. Then he broke into a wide smile. "I bet you say that to all the boys," he said coyly. She laughed again.
When he was dressed, he came back to the bed and leaned over her. "Are you really all right? I didn't intend to be so greedy, but, Erin, you . . ." He couldn't finish without kissing her again. "Did I hurt you?" There was no mistaking the concern in his voice.
"Yes, Lance, I'm all right. And no, you didn't hurt me any more than I wanted to be hurt." She smiled lovingly as she brushed back errant strands of hair from his forehead. "It was beautiful and I'm wonderful."
He sat down on the edge of the bed and took both her hands in his. "Erin," he said slowly. His thumb was drawing a circle in her palm and he stared at it fixedly. Then he lifted his eyes to meet hers. "There are so many unanswered questions, but I didn't want to talk about other men when I was in bed with you."
"No. I understand."
He bent over her and kissed her once on the soft curve of her breast, then tenderly on her mouth. "Can I see you later?" he asked, raking her with his eyes and lending a double meaning to his words.
"Um-hum," she said lazily. It was a promise.
"Get some rest." He kissed her lightly on the forehead and left the room.
Several hours later she was coming out of the bathroom rubbing her wet hair with a towel when someone knocked on the bedroom door. She was securely wrapped in a terrycloth robe, so she said, "Come in."
Mike stuck his head around the opened door. "Miss O'Shea, you have a call from Bart something or other. Do you want to take it?"
Bart! In startled reaction she pressed her fingers against compressed lip?. Mike looked at her curiously and she stammered, "Y—yes, I'll take it. Ask him to wait a moment, please."
"Just pick up the telephone in Mrs. Lyman's room and you won't have to come downstairs."
"Thank you, Mike."
He was almost out the door when he turned around and said, "By the way, I'm glad you're feeling better." Before she had time to respond, he had ducked his head shyly and scooted out the door. Compared to Mike's usual terseness, the speech was elocutionary.
Erin returned the damp towel to the bathroom and mercilessly raked a comb through her wet curls. She was buying time. What could she say to Bart? She didn't want to talk to him so soon after having made love to Lance.
She'd fallen asleep after he left her and hadn't had time to properly cherish her reactions to their shared intimacy.
The enormity of what had happened was still too new, too private, too sacred. She wanted to ponder this momentous occasion, restructure the scene, relive each sensation, listen as her mind played back each stirring word Lance had said.
But if she didn't talk to Bart, no telling what he might do. He might jump to a wrong—or right—conclusion and do something impulsive.
She sighed as she left her room and went into Melanie's.
It would be better to talk to him now rather than later.
Long distance was no way to break an engagement, so she would talk to him normally. As soon as she was able to return to Houston, she would have to tell him she couldn't marry him.
Especially now.
"Hello," Erin said into the receiver.
"Well it's about time, sugar. What in the hell took so long? I've been hangin' on this damn phone for five minutes. You okay, baby?"
Had Bart ever called her by name? she thought crossly.
She was instantly sorry for her vexation and said as cheerfully as she could, "I'm fine, Bart. I'm sorry for the delay."
She offered no explanation for it.
"How's your brother? Do you like him?" Bart's voice grated on her. His heartiness and constant good humor seemed trite somehow. So unlike a man who felt things deeply, took things seriously, and when he did laugh, it was very special. "Sugar, are you asleep?" Bart boomed into the receiver.
"Oh, no. I . . . uh . . . I haven't exactly met Ken yet," she demurred.
"How come, baby? Nothing's wrong, is it?"
"No, no," she hastened to say. "It's just that he's out of town on business and his wife, Melanie, whom I adore, thought it would be best if we didn't tell him anything until he . . . uh . . . finished this business deal he's involved in." Did that sound plausible? She wasn't accustomed to lying and it didn't come easy to her. It was so hard to concentrate. She kept seeing Lance's impassioned face hovering over hers and hearing those precious love words he had chanted gruffly in her ear.
"I just got back from the Panhandle yesterday. We brought in another well, sugar. Sure wish you'd been here to celebrate with me."
"That's wonderful, Bart," she said. What difference did another well make? He had about thirty others.
"I called your office first thing this morning and Betty gave me this number. Who was the guy that answered if it wasn't your brother?"
Never underestimate Bart's cunning. " T h a t . . . " Think, Erin! "That was a business associate of Ken's. He had stopped by to leave some papers. Melanie and I were out in the flower garden. That's what took so long to answer the telephone. He had to find us."
She didn't want to tell him about her illness. It would be just like him to catch the next plane to San Francisco.
Last fall she had contracted a common cold. The next morning she had dragged herself out of bed to answer the doorbell and was astounded to find a registered nurse standing on her porch reporting for duty, Bart had insisted. No, she didn't want him to know she had been sick.
"When is that brother of yours coming back? When are you coming home? I'm as lonesome as a polecat, honey.
I miss you."
What was it Lance had rasped in her ear? "Lift . . . ah, Erin . . . Yes, that's it . . . Yes . . . I'll wait . . . I'll wait darling . . . but hurry!"