“But I do mind,” Nick said. He dropped
the jacket he had slung over one shoulder. His finger reached up to
loosen the knot of his tie. “I mind very much your bathing without
me.” His fingers unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the swarthy chest
and reached for the waistband of his pants.
“Well, I certainly don’t intend to
bathe with you,” she said and began to lever herself out of the
tub, only to realize she was exposing her most intimate parts for
Nick’s rapacious view. Quickly she sank beneath the foaming bubble
bath. “Do you mind!”
“Yes, I do. I mind very much.” He
stood there, nude now, his sun- bronzed body as beautiful as a
Greek athlete’s. It took all of her willpower to avert her gaze. A
blush of shame at her wanton thoughts suffused her golden
skin.
“You know, you’re very enticing with
your rosy nipples peeking out of the suds like that,” Nick said as
he slid into the tub beside her.
Panicky, she tried to move away, but
there was nowhere to go that some part of her was not touching
Nick. She turned large, imploring eyes on him. “Please, Nick . .
.”
Nick retrieved the soap. A devilish
smile curved his lips. “Turn around. I’ll wash your back for
you.”
Before she could demur, Nick caught
her shoulders to turn her away from him. “Oh!” she winced at the
slight stab of pain in her left shoulder. Though her shoulder was
nearly well and she hoped to discard the cumbersome brace by the
end of the coming week, a twist in the wrong direction could
sometimes still hurt.
Nick’s lips found her shoulder now.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“No, you aren’t! You just want an
excuse to—to ...”
“You’re right,” he said, his lips not
halting in the trail they traced across her shoulder to the hollow
of her neck. “I’m a blackguard.” His teeth tugged at the lobe of
her ear, and she shivered at the delightful sensation. “I’d stoop
to anything to have the pleasure of making love to my wife,” he
murmured. “Did I tell you how much I like the way you piled your
hair on top your lovely head?” His fingers toyed with the wisps at
the nape of her neck, and she shivered again.
“Nick,” she breathed, “you
mustn’t!”
“Why not?” he asked softly. His hands
reached around her to cup the breasts that glistened in the water.
“I only want to make you feel good, Mrs. Raffer.”
He gently squeezed the golden globes,
and she sighed. With his kneeding her breasts and pulling,
elongating her nipples, her resistance was quickly fading. The heat
of his body against her back surely raised the temperature of the
water— why wasn’t it boiling the way her blood was at that moment?
When knowing hands slid down along her rib cage, she remained
immobile, wanting to escape while she still maintained possession
of her senses.
“Because . . .because I’m using the
safe word – stop!” she whispered in one last vain attempt to save
herself.
Nick groaned. When he abruptly moved
away, she almost slid under the water without the support of his
back. “I suppose we’ll be late,” he said, “if I continued with this
pleasurable pastime.”
Almost regretfully she reached for the
towel on the rack and climbed from the tub. One last glance before
she left the bathroom indicated that Nick had apparently already
forgotten her as he vigorously soaped his corded neck and
shoulders. What for her was something very special was for Nick
merely a pastime!
So when Nick came into the bedroom and
she was slipping into the simple but elegantly designed pale blue
clinging gown that sloped off the shoulders to gather at a deep V
at the small of her back, her indignation had dropped the room
temperature a chilly ten degrees. With frost on her eyelashes, she
looked right through him when he passed her to take from the chest
of drawers a white linen shirt with Irish lace down the front and
at the cuffs.
She tried to ignore him as she pinned
up her dark hair in a crown of curls held in place by a white silk
rose. But it was almost impossible when he dropped a light kiss on
her cheek in passing or playfully pinched her buttocks when she
bent to slip on a thigh-high.
“Where’s your brace?” he asked as he
shrugged into the black tuxedo’s jacket
How could she admit that her feminine
vanity caused her to want to look her best in anticipation of
meeting Sheila Morrison that evening? “My gown wouldn’t hang
right,” she said finally. “I thought I’d just leave the brace off
for the evening.”
Nick came up behind her and clasped
her shoulders. “I’ll miss helping you with that contraption,” he
said as he lowered his dark head to nuzzle her ear, then released
her to finish tying his black bow tie.
She marveled that she felt little
embarrassment as the two of them went about the intimate act of
dressing—as if it were a commonplace thing they had done before
each other for years. This was like the closeness her parents
shared.
Yet for Nick she knew it meant
nothing. So, as much as she wanted to reach out and run her fingers
through the thick curls that grew over Nick’s collar, she
restrained herself. Once Nick knew he had mastered her, she was
sure he would lose interest in her.
She was even more sure when she met
Sheila Morrison two hours later.
Julie had tried to control her
nervousness when she arrived at the La Fonda Inn, to appear calm
and accustomed to the elegance that surrounded her in the grand
ballroom— from the liveried waiters in gold and purple who passed
around trays filled with glasses of bubbly champagne all the way to
the distinguished governor himself who chatted amiably with Nick
and her.
But all too soon there were other
people eager to claim Nick’s attention—the oil lobbyist’s wife, a
bleached blond who had already had too much to drink; the railroad
commissioner, wanting Nick’s support for an upcoming bill; and Juan
Rivera, a famed Mexican-American artist interested in obtaining a
commission to paint a mural on the city hall’s walls.
Watching Nick as he adroitly handled
these people, she could well understand why he drew crowds wherever
he went. Not only was he exceedingly handsome, especially that
evening in the debonair dinner clothes, but he also seemed
genuinely interested in the people and their problems.
Julie was about to revise her opinion
of her political stand on the issue of Nicholas Raffer as a
senator—until Sheila Morrison came into the room.
It was a large room, filled with well
over three hundred people, but still every person there was as
cognizant of Sheila’s entrance as if a butler had stepped forward
and announced, “Santa Fe’s Patroness of the Arts— Miss Sheila
Morrison.”
Julie stood at Nick’s side and
watched, sick at heart, as the beautiful, statuesque young woman
with a tawny mane of hair moved toward them. Her every movement was
one of sensual feline grace, magnified a hundred times over by the
sleek silver lam6 gown she wore that accented her voluptuous
curves.
Sheila took a glass from the tray the
waiter offered and came to stand at Nick’s side. “Nick, love,” she
said in a husky voice, “I’ve been wanting to meet your little
wife.”
I just bet you have, Julie thought.
She felt as if all eyes were riveted on the three of them, every
breath held in delicious suspense, waiting for the clash of the two
women over the senator.
Nick’s long lips curled in amusement.
“Sheila Morrison, my wife, Julie.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Julie
lied, her voice sounding cool, with just the right amount of
self-assurance . . . self-assurance that she did not feel as she
compared herself to the incredibly lovely woman.
Sheila turned long-lashed turquoise
eyes on Nick. “All of Santa Fe is talking about the rapidity of
your courtship, Nick.” She raised a finely arched brow at Julie.
“How ever did you two meet?”
“You might say it was by accident,”
Nick said and put an arm about Julie’s waist in the possessive
maimer of a loving husband.
She wanted to grind the stiletto heel
of her shoe into his foot. His act of the adoring husband fooled
her probably no more than it did Sheila.
Nor was she fooled when Sheila just
happened to discover she shared the same table as the newlyweds.
She was sure Sheila had managed to arrange the seating just as
easily as she managed to hold Nick’s attention with her intimate
discussion of the approaching election year—though Julie would have
sworn Sheila’s eyes said something else.
Although the other guests seated with
Julie were intelligent, interesting people—a grand-father who wrote
historical romances, a scientist who worked at the Los Alamos
laboratory, and a ski instructor—she could not keep her gaze from
straying to Nick and Sheila. From the corner of her eye she watched
his handsomely sardonic face as he inclined his head, listening
intently to whatever it was that Sheila whispered at his ear. Every
once in a while the flash of a photographer’s camera illuminated
the table, but the two of them seemed oblivious to the commotion.
Once she saw Dee Morley busily scribbling on a notepad and inwardly
cringed at what she would read in Dee’s column the next
day.
She was so miserable that the
sumptuously prepared prime rib of roast beef stuck in her throat
like a piece of charcoal and the red wine was as tasteless as
water. After dinner the musicians began to play, and the governor
and his wife opened the first dance, a waltz. A few minutes later
others began to join the first couple, and she noticed Sheila rise
from her seat and Nick take her arm, leading her out onto the dance
floor.
Julie tried to smile, to listen to
what the scientist was telling her about the world’s first atomic
bomb, developed in New Mexico, but her heart was not in it. She
could not help but watch the striking couple on the dance floor.
Two tall, beautiful people—they were made for each other. They were
the elite of New Mexico’s high society—rich, beautiful, influential
people.
It was not until her name was repeated
the second time that she realized a man behind her was requesting a
dance with her. She looked around. “Jim! I didn’t know you were
here.”
The nice-looking man of medium height
took her hand. “And I wasn’t sure you were here—until I saw Senator
Raffer on the dance floor and realized that ...” He
halted.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said,
saving him from embarrassment.
“You should know by now that newspaper
editors are always invited to all the func¬tions,” he said wryly.
“To make certain the gala events get a big splash on the society
page.” His gaze swept over her appreciatively, and he said, “You
look lovely tonight, Julie.”
“Thank you, Jim,” she said quietly.
Why hadn’t Nick told her that? Constantly subjected as she was to
Nick’s roguish good looks, she had forgotten that Jim Miller was
quite handsome himself, with blondish-brown hair that emphasized
his velvet brown eyes; so she readily accepted his request to
dance. If Nick could have fun, then why couldn’t she? she asked
herself.
Jim guided her to the already crowded
dance floor and took her in his arms. she found it easy to follow
Jim, though she felt none of the electric quality in him that ran
under Nick’s cool reserve.
“Are you happy?” Jim asked.
She turned her face into his shoulder
so that he could not see the misery in her eyes. “Of course,” she
mumbled into the smooth lapel of his tuxedo. “Aren’t all brides
happy?” Jim looked down at her flushed face. “I guess it’s just
that I didn’t know that you were seeing anyone else.”
“I—it was just something unexpected.”
She met his concerned gaze. “I’m sorry, Jim, truly.”
He smiled. “No problem. I knew you
were too cute and too intelligent for some lucky man not to snatch
up quickly. I’m just sorry I waited too long.”
Her dimples deepened. “That’s the best
thing I’ve heard all night.”
“Do I get to give the bride a
kiss?”
“Of course,” she said, expecting a
brief kiss on the cheek.
But it was more than a brotherly peck
Jim bestowed on Julie’s inviting lips, and she was so surprised by
the kiss that for a moment she forgot to dance and stood there in
Jim’s arms, staring up at him.
“May I claim a dance with my wife?”
the voice behind them asked dryly.
Jim released her. “Surely, Senator
Raffer,” he said, flashing a glance at her. But his smile was
affable as he gave her up into Nick’s arms. No smile crossed Nick’s
cool, self-contained expression.
Already a swift weakness was sweeping
through her at Nick’s touch—the way his arm held her against his
hard length, his hand holding hers in a firm possession. She knew
he had seen Jim kiss her but doubted that he cared since he seemed
to be so involved with Sheila.
On that she was wrong.
“And are you enjoying yourself?” Nick
asked.
She heard the razor edge in his voice
with some surprise and wished she could see his expression, but her
face was firmly anchored against his chest. “Why is everyone all of
a sudden so interested in my well-being?” she demanded
petulantly.