Passion (12 page)

She didn’t reach for the phone, but she did at last look at him. “I can’t do that. D.J. knows me too well. It’s not in my
character to just decide to stay over a few days, especially when I have responsibilities at home.”

He had no doubt that, ordinarily, that was true. But these weren’t ordinary times. This wasn’t an ordinary situation. “It’s
not
in your character
,” he pointed out, his words deliberately mocking, “to take a strange man to your hotel room and fuck him, but you did it.
People do things when they’re on vacation that are out of character… especially in a place like New Orleans.” Then his voice
softened, became quieter, smoother, and more threatening. “Call her, Teryl.”

Reluctantly she pulled the phone into her lap. “Do I charge it to the room?’”

Standing up, he pulled a well-worn leather wallet from his hip pocket, withdrew his calling card, and handed it to her. She
looked at it for a moment, reading the number before looking at him. “Simon Tremont doesn’t have a phone.”

“You don’t know that for a fact, do you? All you know is that Tremont refuses to do business over the phone.” Then he sighed
tiredly. “You’re right. I don’t have a phone. But you don’t have to have one to get a calling card. Instead of a telephone
number, the company randomly assigns a number for your use.”

Instead of sitting down again on his bed, he moved across the small space to sit beside her. He didn’t want to be that close—especially
on a bed—and she obviously didn’t want him there, but he needed to hear both ends of the conversation. He needed to know in
case she tried to give some sort of message to make her friend suspicious. Picking up the receiver from the phone in her lap,
he forced it into her hand and gave a quiet order. “Call her, Teryl.
Now
.”

The phone was ringing for the third time by the time D.J. Howell stretched across the bed to answer it, using her sexiest,
most sultry Southern voice. The moment she recognized
her friend’s voice, she traded sultry for everyday normal. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Teryl, but it’s after nine o’clock Louisiana
time, and you’re supposed to be on a plane heading home. Don’t tell me you decided to chuck it all and stay.”

“Would you believe me if I said I had?”

“Uh-huh. And pigs might fly. What’s up?” The flight had probably been delayed, she thought, wrapping the phone cord around
her index finger, or maybe it had been overbooked and Teryl had gotten bumped. Those were the only reasons, short of death
or disaster, that she could imagine making her oh-so-reliable friend miss tonight’s return home.

But even Teryl, she discovered, could surprise her.

“I, uh—I’m really having a good time, D.J., and I, uh… I decided to stay a few days longer. I have some vacation time left,
and uh… money’s no problem—there are ATM machines all over the place—and I-I can change my return flight without having to
pay a fortune.” Her friend paused to draw a loud breath, then rushed on. “I know I should have planned ahead, but I didn’t
decide until tonight. Anyway, I’m glad I caught you before you left for the airport. Oh, and D.J., I need a favor—”

Eyes widened in exaggerated disbelief, D.J. interrupted her. “Whoa, girl, back up here. You just decided to stay a few days
longer? At the very last minute?” Delight coloring her voice, she asked, “Did you meet a man, Teryl?”

“A-a man?” Teryl’s voice squeaked.

Grinning, D.J. rolled onto her back, plumping a lace-edged pillow beneath her head. “My, my, you did. Will wonders never cease.
And here I was going to ask for the condoms back when you got in tonight. No need to let them go to waste.” She chuckled softly.
“He must be good—damned good—to make little Miss Goody-goody behave so naughtily. Tell me about him.”

“Listen, D.J., about that favor—”

“Huh-uh. No details, no favor.”

“D.J., please—”

“Where did you meet him?”

“Pat O’Brien’s. D.J., I really need—”

“Getting picked up in a bar. Teryl, you slut. Is he handsome?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Well endowed?”

“Come on,” Teryl mumbled, and D.J. could easily envision her blush. “Don’t do this, not now, please. I’ll call you when I
have a new airline reservation, okay? And tomorrow morning, can you call Rebecca and explain to her that I’m taking a few
days of vacation?”

“You’re no fun, Teryl. I tell you everything about my men, and you won’t answer even one pertinent question about yours.”
D.J. sighed her best put-upon sigh. “All right I’ll call Rebecca and tell her that New Orleans has absolutely corrupted our
angelic Teryl, that she’s taken leave of he senses and is holed up in a shabby French Quarter hotel doing only the devil knows
what with a handsome, sexy, an thoroughly dissolute Southern gentleman.” Then the humor faded from her voice. “Listen, girl,
you be careful. These are
my
games you’re playing. Don’t let yourself get hurt.”

For a moment the silence was so heavy that she wondered if they’d been disconnected. Then came another burst of rapid speech.
“D.J., listen to me. I’m in trouble. This guy—”

D.J. laughed. Trust Teryl to complicate even the simples one- or two-night stand. The most likely trouble her friend was having
was reconciling her actions with her oh-so-good self-expectations. She demanded so much of herself, had such high morals and
rigid standards. The fact that she’d had sex with a stranger was probably enough to scandalize her. The fact that she had
apparently enjoyed it was definitely enough.

“What’s the problem, Teryl? So you’re finally discovering that sex without commitment can be pretty damn good. Don’t worry,
little sister. One wild fling isn’t going to turn you into a slut like me,” she promised. “Have your fun. Us this guy up and
wear him out. When you come home, it’ll be our secret. You can put your little halo on again, and no on will ever suspect
a thing. Okay?”

After another silence, Teryl sighed and murmured, “Yeal D.J. Okay.”

“Hey, I’ve got to go. Since you’re standing me up, I’ve got plans to make. Enjoy yourself, and let me know when you’ll be
home.”

D.J. listened until a click indicated that Teryl had hung up, and then she returned the receiver to its cradle. For a moment,
she simply lay there, thinking about the conversation.

Who ever would have believed that Teryl would one day do something wild and dangerous? For twenty-nine years she had been
so safe, so dull, so
normal.
She was as reliable as mosquitos and muggy summer days in the South, as conventional as any middle-class, white-bread kid
could be. Not once in twenty-nine years had she ever taken a chance—not with men, not with herself, not with life. She was
predictable. Bland and boring.

And now she was off in some exotic city, getting laid by some exciting stranger.

And even in the middle of this hot and heavy affair, her prudish side was trying hard to make her feel guilty for it. How
thoroughly, typically Teryl.

Rising from the bed, D.J. returned to the task the call had interrupted. She took a seat at the old pine table she had turned
into a dressing table. Rows of frosted lights lit her face mercilessly, but she had no reason to mind. Her skin was damned
near perfect, smooth, free of wrinkles—not the pasty, sickly white of so many redheads, but a creamy gold. The only flaw was
a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and high on her cheeks, but they could be hidden by makeup. Nature had given her
blue eyes, but contacts turned them green. Her mouth was a little too pouty for her tastes, but most men loved it. Most men
said it was made for kissing.

Rich said it was made for something a whole lot nastier… and a whole lot more fun. Sometimes when he was annoyed with her,
he said that cocksucking was her best talent. It damn well ought to be, she thought as she selected a lipstick from the tray
on the table and twisted it up out of the tube. She’d been practicing it since she was thirteen.

She put on lipstick, blotted it, then applied it again. Her makeup done, she removed the band that gathered her hair at her
nape and the yellow clips that held it off her forehead and
let the dark red strands fall around her face and down past her shoulders. Her hair was long, heavy, and thick and could be
a real burden in Richmond’s sticky summers, but she refused to cut it. She hadn’t had short hair since she was a teenager,
when she had realized that men—many of them, at least—preferred long hair on their women. They found something sexy and sensual
about it. That was the same reason for her curls, wild and unrestrained.

In fact, men—attracting them, seducing them, using and being used by them—were the motivation behind damned near everything
she did.

Pushing away from the table, she slipped out of her robe and put on a nearly transparent cotton skirt and a thin ribbed tank
top. If she were still going to the airport, she would be wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but if Teryl was getting laic tonight,
there was no reason why
she
shouldn’t get lucky, too.

It was ten o’clock when she left the apartment, her destination an old farmhouse a short distance outside the city. A single
light, glowing yellow against the night sky, showed where the driveway angled off away from the road. She had wanted to come
earlier, had wanted to call in sick and come out here with lunch, a bottle of wine, and her always-willing body.

But Rich had said no. He was a hateful bastard sometimes He’d known how much she always missed him, had known how horny she
would be, and he hadn’t given a damn. He had told her to wait.

Screw him. She had waited long enough. If he didn’t want her, plenty of men in Richmond did. She wasn’t going to spend the
night alone.

The driveway was rutted, badly in need of repairs. She had to slow her sleek little Camaro to a crawl to avoid the worst of
the holes. Rich hardly seemed to notice things like rutted driveways or wobbly steps or leaks in the old farmhouse roof. Of
course, he had other more important things on his mind. He had plans. Ambitions.

She parked behind his car and climbed out. A bare bulb burned beside the front door, attracting a haze of gnats and
moths. There were lights on inside the house, too, in the front room on the first floor, in the hallway, upstairs in his bedroom.

On the porch, she ignored the doorbell—it didn’t work—and knocked instead, three loud thuds that echoed through the door.
He was never quick to answer, maybe because he always knew it was her. In all the years he’d lived there, he had once told
her, no one but her had ever come to the house. He had no friends that she was aware of, no other women, no family. His life
was tied up in her.

When two minutes passed into three, then four, she twisted the doorknob. It was unlocked. She stepped inside, closed and locked
the door behind her, then let her purse and keys slide to the floor. Although the front room light was on, she would bet he
was upstairs in his bedroom, probably naked, probably in bed. Possibly waiting for her? Had he suspected or hoped that her
plans would change, that she would be free to come here tonight regardless of his lack of invitation? Was that why he’d left
the hall and porch lights on, why he’d left the door unlocked?

She wanted to think so. She wanted it so badly that she hurt with it.

As she climbed the stairs, she became aware of the sounds of a television show. The voice was vaguely familiar—Tiffany something,
the woman in New Orleans who had conducted the Simon Tremont interview yesterday. D.J. had seen clips of it on the news last
night, had caught it again on a syndicated entertainment show. Sweet Tiffany had lucked out, the bitch. She’d gotten more
exposure in the last thirty hours or so than in the entire rest of her career combined, all because she hosted a silly little
talk show in the city where Tremont had set his five best-selling books.

Teryl had gotten lucky, too—a free trip to New Orleans, an introduction to her idol, and a good screwing by a handsome stranger
who obviously knew what to do with whatever nature had given him—and all because she had no more ambition than to be Rebecca
Robertson’s flunky for the rest of her life.

D.J. shouldn’t be surprised. Teryl had always been lucky,
ever since she was four years old, and she always would be. If there was a prize to be had, somehow, some way, Teryl would
win it. The rewards of virtue, their mother would say if she were here.

Well, the hell with virtue.
She
would take the rewards of sin anytime.

Stopping outside the partially opened bedroom door, she grasped the hem of her shirt and peeled it over her head. She was
naked underneath. She found the feel of fabric against her breasts too sensuous to bother with wearing a bra. Holding the
shirt by one narrow strap, she pushed the door open the rest of the way and strolled inside.

Rich
was
naked, he
was
in bed, and he was ready for her, evidenced by the bulge beneath the thin cotton sheet. He wasn’t as well endowed as she
would have liked, but he had other things going for him that made up for the lack of size. Things like passion. Intensity.
Unpredictability.

And just the right degree of cruelty.

He spared her only the slightest of glances before turning his attention back to the television. How many times had that Tremont
interview been shown across the country? she wondered as she approached the bed. How many more times would they have to see
it before everyone tired of it and went on to something new?

The bed sank as she knelt on it, shifted again as she stretched out beside him. He didn’t look at her or speak to her, didn’t
reach out to pull her close or acknowledge her in any way. Sometimes he ignored her to punish her. Sometimes he did it to
remind her of the derision he felt for her. Tonight, she knew, his attention was simply directed elsewhere—to the television
screen, to the beautiful woman and the handsome man and the interview they were conducting.

She kissed his nipple, licked it, bit it, and felt a quiver ripple through him. She spread the kisses out—across his chest,
his ribs, his belly, taking her time, licking, sucking, suckling, as she edged the sheet lower. She was kissing his belly,
hard and flat, the skin rough with swirling dark hair that, only inches away, grew thick and coarse around his erection, when
finally he responded, tangling his hand in her hair,
pushing her lower. As Tiffany Whatever giggled and asked another of her inane questions, D.J. took him in her mouth, and as
the camera moved into a tight close-up of a serious, earnest Simon Tremont discoursing on celebrity, he came, filling her
mouth in a hot rush. She swallowed rapidly, then sought more, as some idle part of her mind blessed Teryl and her dissolute
stranger.
This
was where she wanted to be tonight, not at the airport, picking up her friend.
This
was what she wanted.