Manacled in Monaco (21 page)

Sarita edged between him and the mike. “We thought you’d prefer to report on our Hindu wedding ceremony instead. It takes place over a three-day period.”

Pandemonium reigned as the reporters shouted a barrage of questions at her.

“Are you a practicing Hindu?”

“When’s the ceremony?”

“Can I get a copy of the invite list?”

“Is your father from India?”

“What’s the meaning of your head band?”

“Did you meet Rolan while working as a cook on a yacht?”

“Wasn’t Cindy, his Playmate girlfriend, on the boat too?”

It went on and on and on. She answered every question with quiet politeness, whether it was crudely worded or not, and managed to avoid the more intimate dicey queries. Rolan never left her side, kept one arm around her waist, and signaled with tightening fingers if she went into too much detail.

At the beginning of the three-hour session, all of Rolan’s teammates had filed into the room, forming a wide-legged, arms-folded barrier at the back of the gym. Suresh stood to Sarita’s right, silent most of the time, but bringing down the house with an occasional snide comment.

When the last reporter left, Sarita’s knees gave out and she would have fallen had not Rolan supported her.

“Congratulations Sarita. That was the best piece of publicity I’ve ever seen. Not one journalist had that tape on his mind by the time you’d finished with them. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You are one lucky SOB, Paxton.”

Tony thumped the gym’s swinging doors open, raced into the room, and skidded to a stop right in front of Sarita.

“We’re going to Dad’s house in a helicopter. An actual real-life helicopter. You have to wear a helmet. You can only speak to everyone else with a mike, and it’s open on all sides. There’s a helipad on the roof and we have one at the house, too.”

Eyes widening she glanced at Rolan. “A helicopter?”

“The helipad is one of the reasons I wanted this property,” said Suresh.

“Don’t ask me. I know nothing about this,” Rolan replied.

“I ordered it,” Geoff volunteered. “It’s rush hour. Today is Friday and I don’t feel like coping with that commute. Balls, Paxton, what’s the use of having money if you can’t splurge once in a while?”

“Come on, Mom.” Tony grabbed her hand and dragged her to the doorway. “Da-ah-ahd, you too. We’re going in the first one.”

“Two helicopters?” Sarita asked and knuckled one temple hoping the massage would resolve her confusion. “Why do we need two of them?”

“That one’s for you three, “ Geoff said, jerking his head to the right. “Suresh and I are heading down to the Hamptons for the weekend. We’re taking the other one.”

Tony didn’t stop talking the whole helicopter ride to Salem. They landed on Rolan’s helipad, which was located about fifty yards from the house.

She fell in love with the old-fashioned Colonial home. A wraparound porch with long majestic columns framed both levels of the two-storied building. Instead of manicured lawns, a collage of greenery, flowers, and shrubs lined one side of the driveway. A large oak brushed verdant leaves against the right side of the building.

Set on a plateau, the land behind the house dropped off in the far distance. Sarita smelled the tang of the ocean and a cool breeze washed over her shoulders.

Home. Rolan. Tony.

Life, living, a giddy happiness fluttered and teased at her brain, her veins, the throbbing pulse at her throat. This felt like home, like sanctuary, a tranquil pool of serenity.

She found Rolan staring at her as if he was trying to read her mind.

“It’s your house. You can change anything you want. Or we can buy something else. “He stuck his hands in the front pockets of his khakis, a gesture reminiscent of Tony’s nervous habit. Averting his eyes, he studied a brown patch of dirt. “Why’d you come back? Why were you at the press conference? Not that I didn’t want you there. Not that you were nothing short of a dream, but after what you saw…”

“Is this the time to start this?” She asked, not quite ready to bare her soul. “Where’s Tony?”

“Harry was waiting for him in back of the house. He’s on his way to a football camp run by one of Geoff’s pals. Harry’s a coach. He’ll be okay. It’s just the two of us for the next ten days, unless you want to move to a hotel…” His voice trailed off.

“I’ve been in love with you forever, Rolan,” she said and stood up straighter, but couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Jesus,” he replied and his deep baritone wavered on just that one word. “The tape at the conference was doctored. Turns out Rizzo’s a wiz with all things electronic. I gave him my signed letter of resignation dated for halfway through this season in exchange for his erasing certain events from the tape. You need to see the real thing before we go any further. But I meant what I said earlier. I love you Sarita. There is no other woman for me.”

They entered the house. He guided her to the media room, a mini version of a cinema with amphitheater seating and a huge centered screen replete with red drapes on either side. Sarita watched him pop the tape into an old-fashioned beta player.

Did she want to see this? Did she need to? It would be hard enough to erase the vision of him with Shannon. Could she stand to have whatever this was tattooed into her pupils?

“I don’t want to see it,” she said.

“I don’t want any secrets between us,” he countered.

“No, you don’t understand. I want to forget what I saw on the
Glory
. And I don’t want new images in my mind. Whatever you did, it was ten years ago and it’s not you now. I don’t want to live with those pictures in my head.”

“You’re letting me off the hook? I feel even guiltier now. Sarita, about Shannon, it was a stupid, stupid idea. I didn’t want you to see the tape.”

He tunneled both hands through his hair. She wanted to hurl herself into his arms, feel him inside of her, and taste his mouth. But she clenched her fists and stood still, too scared of the powerful emotions rioting inside to do anything else.

“I don’t know how to make this better. I had to force myself to touch her. I only want you. I couldn’t even get it up. That’s why I was dressed --”

“Stop,” she said and pressed her hand against his mouth. “Stop. One day maybe, I’ll be able to talk about this, but not now. All right?”

He nodded and said, his voice a husky croak, “I love you, Sarita honey. I don’t deserve you, but I sure as hell love you.”

Some little leprechaun, some remnant of her mother’s heritage captured her spirit and Sarita surrendered to the moment.

“I love you and you love me. I think that’s all we need for now, ’cept of course for fuel. Take me out to the swankiest Salem restaurant, Mr. ‘Ice’ Paxton.”

“Why do I feel like I’m being set up? Sarita, you’re not going to take any of this back, are you?”

“No, I’m not. But, Rolan Anthony Paxton, I think you need to court me.”

His mouth curved. “I can do that. Hell, I’ll enjoy doing that. So, Mrs. Sarita Paxton, can I tempt you into dining with me tonight?”

“You bet. Half an hour?” Heady excitement coursed through her veins. She’d planned this whole evening yesterday in the Keys.

Sarita, showered, changed, and was downstairs with her coat on before Rolan even started on the first step. They didn’t speak, not a word was exchanged all the way to the restaurant. A sleek structure, all white and stainless steel with hints of blue, she sighed, disappointed by his choice. The receptionist offered to check their coats and Sarita let Rolan assist her.

“Jesus,” he said and stood there crushing the trench coat in his large palms. “That blasted red dress.” His eyes raked her over and over. “Sarita?”

“I love the way you take over in the bedroom Rolan, but I’m not your slave outside of it.” She shot him an “I am woman” grin and twirled, doing a little sashay as she followed the receptionist. Their table for two centered a slate fireplace in which gas flames licked and danced. Sarita sat in the chair Rolan held out for her. She tugged the scarlet material riding up her thighs down a tad. Glancing up, she buttonholed Rolan’s gaze which focused on her fingers, the scarlet sheath, and her thighs.

“Is this a test?” he growled and slumped into the chair opposite.

“No, it’s a photo op, as the reporters called it. I promised two of them a shot of us having a romantic dinner.”

“Damn it, Sarita, I will not have a picture of you in that dress all over the newspapers. I told you before that dress belongs only in our bedroom.”

“Smile, Rolan, they’re here and they’ll be photographing us for the next few minutes.”

“Smile? Smile? Jesus woman. I can see your nipples. Smiling is the last thing I want to do.”

“What do you want to do?”

“What? You damn well know what I want to do. It’s been almost twenty-five days.”

She slid a gift-wrapped package across the table.

Rolan’s eyebrows met his wheat-colored hairline and his lips curved. “I’ve one for you, too. I had it made before you got the chicken pox.” One hand slipped inside his coat pocket and came out with a pair of blue boxes with sparkling silver bows. He pushed them across the table. “You first.”

The only gifts she’d ever received in her entire lifetime were the pink diamond heart and handmade wooden treasures from Tony’s shop class. Moisture pooled in her eyes as she studied the boxes. One finger trailed a path around the perfect curve of the sterling multipetaled bow. Tiffany’s. She’d never even entered the store, too intimidated by the slick-suited salesmen to traverse the entranceway.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

Their gazes met and she fell in love all over again.

“Sarita honey, are you okay?” His hand covered hers and he gave her a little squeeze. “You aren’t going to cry, are you?” Fine lines bracketed his eyes.

It took a few moments before she could get around the huge lump in her throat and her voice came out all wavery and raspy. “It’s my second gift. I’m savoring the moment.”

“Jesus.” He threw his napkin on the table. “Let’s go home, honey. I know you want to be courted and I will court you. I need to touch you, be inside you.”

She melted, her bones ceased to exist, her temperature leaping above the flames burning in the fireplace and she croaked, “Yes.”

The broad answering grin dominating his features was his only reply. “Let’s give them a real photo op, honey.”

With that, he scooped her into his arms and fused their mouths together right there in the middle of the restaurant in front of the roaring fire.

Cameras flashed, the other patrons broke into applause, and they left amidst a swirl of shouted congratulations and best wishes. They were in the car when the manager came out with the Tiffany boxes and her present for him.

She didn’t know how they made it home. Not even aware of the roar of the Porsche, Sarita wallowed in Rolan’s musky scent, the way he curved one hand under her left thigh, and his muttered endearments. They made record time.

A hand in the small of her back, Rolan guided her straight to the curved wooden staircase. At the top of the landing, he halted, cradled her face, and said, “Are we okay? I know we have to go over the
Glory
bit, but can it wait? I need to be inside you, to hold you in my arms, to kiss every inch of skin, smell you from head to toe, and lick everywhere. I’m burning up and I can’t wait. If --”

She slid the jacket off his shoulders and unbuckled his pants belt.

“Sarita? Honey? Say something.”

“Open it,” she ordered and shoved the black box into his palm.

“What?”

“Open it,” she repeated and finished unbuttoning his shirt. Sarita sighed. Never had she seen a more mouthwatering sight, his ripped chest and the pink nipples saluting his arousal.

“Yours are so pink,” she said and suckled the taut point, letting her tongue memorize the feel of it stiffening, responding. Her nose absorbed the spicy scent of his increasing excitement.

“Jesus. Jesus.” His palms cupped her jaw and he drew her back. “Do I have to open this now?” He held up the black box.

“Yes.” Panting, moisture creaming the tops of her thighs, she slid one ruby strap off her shoulder. “Now.”

“Stay still. Don’t do that. I’m so close to losing control --”

She grabbed the box and opened it, effectively silencing him, and dangled a pair of manacles off one hand.

Pupils darkening, eyes narrowing, Rolan’s gaze moved from the bracelet to her eyes and his lips curled. “Payback time, is it?”

He held out his hands wrists touching. “Go for it.”

She did.

Rolan didn’t protest when she handcuffed him to the bed. His chest rose and fell faster when she slipped the blindfold over his eyes.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Same rules apply, darling. Talk. Tell me everything you feel.” She located the feather purchased a couple of days earlier and trailed it over the arch of his foot.

“What
is
that?” Rolan’s lead lolled left to right.

Sarita bit the ridge of his left buttock. “You’re not talking, darling.”

“It tickles.”

“And this?” She traced a circle on the inside of his thigh and her lips lifted when his penis leaked precum.

“Suck me, honey.”

“Uh-uh, you’re not behaving, Rolan Paxton. Speak to me.”

“You’re torturing me, woman. I can feel how wet you are. Your honey’s wetting my leg. I can smell your sweet pussy. I want to feel it on my cock.”

“Like this?”

She straddled his hips, held his penis close to his stomach, and rested her pussy at the base. Sidling up and down, she rode his glistening organ, one slow inch at a time. Flattening to her elbow, her teeth grazed his tight nipple and she blew on it. His belly rippled under hers and he groaned.

“Faster, harder.”

“Nope.” Using the feather, she outlined his belly button and lifted his cock with her left hand. Tracing a figure eight across Rolan’s pelvis, Sarita held the base of his prick in a tight grip, and she smiled when he bucked into her hand.

“Jesus. Let’s have a quickie, honey. Take the edge off? It’s been weeks.”

“Uh-uh.” The feather tickled its way up his rigid arousal and around the underside of his crown. Sweeping her tongue along the same path, Sarita buried her nose in his pubic hair and inhaled, loving his musky scent.