Midnight Jewels (12 page)

"Don't forget to pack this."

"Don't worry," she retorted, "I wasn't planning on leaving it behind."

"Been using it for some late night reading, I see."

"Purely professional interest," she informed him loftily and turned away to search about in a drawer for her underwear. She knew she was turning pink.

"Professional interest. Is that what you call it?"

She heard the teasing quality in his voice and was torn between the pleasure of hearing his silent laughter and the annoyance of having him discover the book in such an incriminating location. "Yes, it was professional interest. I even formed a professional opinion about the author."

"Rivington Burleigh?" Croft walked up behind her and
put his hands on her bare shoulders. He dropped a feather light kiss on her wet hair. "What conclusion did you come to about him?"

"That he's a her."

"What?"

She could tell she had surprised him. Mercy smiled smugly. "That's right. A her. I think Rivington Burleigh was a woman."

"Eighteenth century porn written by a woman? Not likely."

"Why not? There were other women writers in the eighteenth century. Lots of them. And it wasn't uncommon for them to write under a man's name."

"But this kind of thing?"

"Are you one of those men who think women aren't interested in erotica?" She moved away from his hands, heading for the closet to find her jeans. "If so, I've got news for you. Our tastes in it might be different than men's tastes, but that doesn't mean we don't appreciate it on occasion."

"Oh, I believe you, Mercy," he drawled, his eyes gleaming. "I saw your face when you looked in the mirror last night, remember?"

She glared at him over her shoulder. "A gentleman would . not remind me."

"A gentleman probably wouldn't have made you look in the mirror in the first place."

"That's an interesting point."

"Tell me what makes you think Burleigh might have been a woman."

Mercy held her jeans in one hand, thinking seriously. "Something about the sensitivity of the writing, I suppose. There's as much description of the main character's internal feelings during the sex scenes as there is of the actual physical activity. Male writers tend to concentrate on the mechanics of the action rather than the emotional responses."

"You're an expert on male-oriented porn? I had no idea your professional interests were so wide-spread."

"Well?" she challenged. "Isn't it true? Aren't men more into the physical side of things while women tend to concentrate on the emotional reactions involved? That's why an affair that's being manipulated by the man takes off with a running start for the bedroom. But I think one managed by a woman would be begun more slowly, with lots of time allowed for getting to know one another."

"Do I sense a turn in the conversation? Are we suddenly getting personal instead of professional?" Croft didn't move, but there was a new level of intensity in the room.

Mercy kept her chin firmly elevated although her fingers were clutched very tightly around the jeans she was holding. She met his gaze with a direct, level look. "Yes," she said, "I think we are."

"Say it straight out, Mercy. I don't want to have to pick my way through the jumble of your mysterious thought processes."

"All right, I will." She took a bream. "I mink we rushed things last night. It was too soon. We need more time to get to know each other, Croft. If you're serious about… about this relationship of ours, then you'll have to agree with me that we should cool the physical side of things for a while."

"Well, hell."

Mercy was startled by his short, picturesque exclamation of disgust. She was also offended. "If all you care about is sex than you can damn well look somewhere else for it."

"You didn't have any objections to sex last night."

She didn't like the forbidding expression on his face. "In the heat of the moment that sort of thing can happen. It's very easy, very common for a person to get swept up by a strong, temporary physical sensation
that—"

"Not you."

She narrowed her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's not easy and not common for you to get swept up by a strong, temporary physical sensation. You were swimming way out of your depth last night and I was the one you hung onto to keep yourself from drowning."

"That's a very colorful image, but it doesn't change anything!"

He took two long strides toward her, driving her back against the wall before she could mink to dodge. His eyes were gleaming with a rare emotion that might have been anger or outrage or both. When she was backed against the wall he caged her there with a hand planted on either side of her.

"Do you really think that all I'm interested in is sex?" Croft asked far too softly.

Mercy made a grab for her composure. "Well, mere's the book, of course. There's no denying you're also interested in it."

"Don't you dare mention
Valley
. Not right now. We are not discussing
that damn book. We are discussing us. You and me. And I want to know if you really think my only interest in you is your performance in bed."

She flinched at that because she was very much afraid her performance in bed as well as on the carpet had been rather amateurish. Her experience was limited, and she knew it probably showed. "I'm sure this is a very common problem in relationships," Mercy said desperately.

"You're an expert on that subject, too?"

"Croft, stop it. You're deliberately trying to intimidate me. I have a valid concern and you owe me the courtesy of treating it with respect and consideration."

"Where is it written I have to treat your idiotic concerns with respect and consideration?"

"My concerns are not idiotic. Croft, we hardly know each other. You just appeared in my shop on Friday, for pete's sake. By Sunday you had me in bed. That's moving too fast
by anyone's standards. By my standards, that's moving at the speed of light. I want to slow down, and if you're serious about coming with me to Colorado, then you'll have to agree to slow down."

"That's your final word on the subject?"

"Yes," she said fiercely, "it is."

He stared at her for an endless minute. The shadows in his eyes shifted rapidly, as if he were running through a variety of responses in his own mind. Abruptly he dropped his hands from the wall, shaking his head with grim disgust.

"How the hell do you do this to me?" he asked in a low voice as he turned away and stalked over to the window.

The question was so soft Mercy wasn't certain it was meant for her to hear. He was asking himself and it was obvious he didn't have an answer.

"Croft…"

He ignored her, running a hand through his dark hair as he stared out the window. "I've just spent a tough thirty minutes trying to clear my head for the day, and in less than five minutes you've managed to ruin everything I accomplished."

"Uh, Croft…"

He swung around, his gaze accusing. "Damn it, I
never
lose my temper."

"You mustn't get upset with yourself just because you're feeling a little impatient with me. You have a perfect right to be somewhat," she groped for the word, "
surprised
about the fact that I've decided to take charge of this relationship. You've got a dominant sort of personality, and for the past couple of days you have been more or less dominating this situation. Naturally, it comes as a shock to hear me say I want to put a hold on the physical side of things, but—"

He cut her off with a sharp movement of his hand. "Not another word, Mercy. I'm warning you. Unless you want to receive a few surprises and shocks yourself, you will close
your mouth and keep it closed until I've had my tea and my breakfast."

Mercy, who had her mouth half open for another reassuring comment on the subject of expecting too much of one's self-control, closed it at once. Without a word she watched him stalk into the bathroom.

They said the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. She would whip up something extra special for breakfast, she decided. And she would keep quiet while she did it. Croft was obviously going through a period of adjustment and needed the time to think.

That decision couldn't stop the silent, laughing grin that suddenly curved her mouth.

Several hours later Mercy sat in the passenger seat of a rented Toyota and struggled with the large, folded map of Colorado she had picked up from the car rental agency. They had left the Denver airport, following Interstate 25 south according to the directions that had been neatly typed on a piece of paper and left waiting at the rental agency.

Once away from the big city haze around Denver, a perfect blue Colorado sky had beckoned. The late afternoon sunshine seemed stronger, more intense than it had back in Washington. On the right the massive barrier of the Rocky Mountains paralleled the interstate, challenging more adventurous drivers to leave the freeway and try their luck in a far more primitive environment. Most of the traffic ignored the challenge.

Croft was driving, his movements relaxed and economical, his full attention on the traffic around him. He had made the decisions at the rental agency, selecting a Toyota Celica for the mountain roads. Mercy watched him surreptitiously, aware of his quiet, focused concentration. He did everything
that way, she realized. He had a way of aiming himself and channeling his energy on whatever task came to hand.

He was not the kind of man to get distracted from whatever he had originally set out to do.

That last thought had been bothering her off and on since that morning. It should have occurred to her earlier, Mercy chided herself. But the night before she knew she had wanted to believe
that she had succeeded in distracting Croft on some important level. The bright light of day and several hours of contemplation had reminded her that wasn't really very likely. It would take a great deal to genuinely distract Croft Falconer, a lot more than the not-very-sophisticated responses of a woman who had practically tripped over her own feet falling into his arms.

"What's the matter?" Croft gave her a quick, questioning frown. "Did you make a mistake in the directions?"

Mercy wrinkled her nose. "No, I did not make a mistake in the directions. We're almost at the turnoff into the mountains. Just another couple of miles."

A reasonably normal level of peace had been restored between Croft and Mercy immediately following the homemade pancakes and pure maple syrup she had served for breakfast. That, however, did not mean they weren't still occasionally rather sharp with each other. For example, Croft had nearly gotten a cup of tea dumped on his head when he had made the mistake of complaining about having to make do with a tea bag. He had attempted to give his hostess precise instructions on the proper preparation of tea and had found himself looking up at a full mug being held threateningly over his head. He'd had the sense to cease and desist.

At first she had believed Croft's continued, periodic brusqueness was a hangover from his earlier flash of male temperament. But now she was coming to the conclusion that it was caused by something else. She had the strange feeling his mind was on a different matter, something more important to him than a recalcitrant woman. The realization made Mercy uneasy.

"Mr. Gladstone's note suggests we stay at a particular motel near the ski resort area this evening. It's one of the few that will be open at this time of year. Tomorrow morning we'll drive on to his home." Mercy leaned forward, reading the signs that were flashing by overhead. "This is the exit. Turn off here and head toward the mountains."

Croft obediently swung the car off the interstate and picked up the narrow two lane road that led into the steep terrain beyond. The mountains soon rose around them, hemming in the tiny swath of roadway. The sparse vegetation quickly thickened, turning into a forest of dark green that cut off the view of the distant peaks.

"I've never been very fond of mountains," Mercy remarked conversationally. "Everything always seems so oppressive in them. It always looks as though it's dusk or twilight during the daytime and at night it's downright dark. Too dark. And the trees make weird sounds."

"That's amusing, considering the fact that you live in the Pacific Northwest." Croft was concentrating on the increasingly torturous road. "Washington is famous for its mountains."

"I don't mind looking at them," she explained patiently. "But you may have noticed I don't actually live in them. I live near the sea."

"So do I."

Mercy nodded complacently. "I'm not surprised."

A smile edged the hard line of his mouth. "What makes you say that?"

"Maybe it's your interest in watercolors. They always seem more appropriate to seaside painting. Or maybe it's just that you're the kind of man who would appreciate the natural drama of living near the ocean. I'm not sure, I'm just not surprised to hear you have a home by the water."

"When we're through dealing with Gladstone I'll take you to C on."

She smiled. "It's a deal." It gave her a lift to hear him talk about the future. Then she thought about the odd phrasing of the sentence. He hadn't talked about delivering the book to Gladstone, he'd said when they were through dealing with Gladstone. Mercy's smile became a frown. She glared at the winding road ahead. "Hadn't you better slow down a bit? This road isn't an interstate."

"Don't worry, Mercy. Everything's under control."

She leaned back in the seat and sighed because he was right. The man drove with the precision and expertise of a professional race car driver. Each curve was met and conquered with perfect timing. The Toyota was responding to a master's touch.

"You've got awfully good reflexes, don't you, Croft?" It was almost an accusation.

"Yes," he said without any trace of pride. It was simply a fact as far as he was concerned.

Shortly before seven that evening Croft parked the rented Toyota in the lot of a somewhat shabby but clean looking motel. The structure was on the fringes of what was undoubtedly a lively ski resort during the winter. The two-story motel was probably much more cheerful and welcoming when it was surrounded by crisp white snow and flocks of eager skiers. Now, at the end of a drowsy summer day with long shadows already cutting off the waning sun, the place looked dreary to Mercy's critical eye.