Good. He didn't want to see or hear Amanda. Once the plane trip tomorrow was over, he'd never have to see her again. That ought to make him happy, so why was his heart aching?
The bed was turned back, the overhead fan was on, and a single floor lamp burned in the corner by the sliding doors.
No mints on the pillow as per McIntyre protocol. He made a mental note to talk to the manager about housekeeping quality. The tourists on the bus had mentioned not enough towels, too. And one had said something about the mini-bar being inadequately stocked.
Hell, what did it matter.
In the bathroom, there was no need to shower because he had washed away the grunge from the Chichen Itza trip before dinner.
Too bad he couldn't wash away Amanda's memory as easily.
He started undressing until, barefoot and shirtless he sat on the side of his bed, trying to figure out who might have the journal, trying to keep from remembering the past night, trying to think of Claire, trying not to think of Amanda.
He kept imagining the odor of oranges drifting through the air, reminding him of the delicate perfume she had worn the first night they met.
When he tried to make plans about confronting Miles, that imaginary scent kept dredging up unwelcome images of her lovemaking.
Damn, why couldn't he forget it, forget her?
He flung his socks and shirt across the room. The hurt roiled inside anyway, each memory a fresh jab at his bowels. Amanda's hand sliding on his chest, her breath at his ear, her low laughter as her body smoothed against his, fitted to his in effortless conjunction. Her sighs afterward.
He cursed and lay back on the coverlet to watch the blades of the ceiling fan revolve and let the pain take him until it was nearly unbearable.
When he got up to close the sliding door shutters, orange fragrance drenched his nostrils. A spot on the balcony caught his eye, an oval bleached ivory by the moonlight, floating above the top of the hot tub.
The oval was so still that at first he thought it a ball or balloon. He stepped outside, realized the oval was a face and that the face belonged to Amanda.
She lay motionless in the water, arms and shoulders in shadow.
He couldn't think of anything to say.
The first rush of joy sped away under outrage that she had used him and he had let her. Had she been there all this time, watching him when he'd sat on the edge of the bed, when he had thrown his shirt and socks across the room, when he had cursed aloud in the quick sharp ache of fresh pain?
She broke the silence. “You said I could use the tub.”
Don’t do this. Stop being a fool.
He moved without volition, near enough to see thin white shoulder straps and outlined eyes and breasts thrust up in frank invitation.
This was the last thing he needed. “I put conditions on your using it. I told you the rule. No clothes allowed.” He couldn’t stand here, imagining her nipples patterning the wet cloth, pretending he had something to say to her.
“I can take it off, but I've always thought a covered body was a lot more titillating than a nude one.”
His foot took another step toward the tub, entirely against his will. His body shuffled, ponderous and heavy, as though the flesh didn't belong to him, and he were a shell encased in steel.
She was a magnet.
His throat clogged. “Do you want to be titillating?”
“Yes,” she said, with bewitching simplicity.
“Why?” With no recollection of getting there, he stood at the edge of the hot tub, where the moonlight played with her cleavage and turned the tinted mouth incredibly wanton. “Is there something else you want from me?”
“Yes.”
The need curled within him though he struggled to bring back the bitterness, to make the anger overwhelm the escalating desire to join her in the water and lay his head against her breasts, to let her caresses chase away his wretchedness.
“What is it you want? Tell me and I'll do my damnedest to give it to you so I won't get my guts strung out again. I'm tired of being a football in your mind games.”
His cruelty didn’t deter her. “I want you to make love to me, Callaway. The way you did last night.”
He had to clear his thickening throat. “It takes a certain mood. I'm out of it.”
“That's too bad.” Her mouth, its provocative lines highlighted by the deep lipstick, drooped in reproach. So did the dark fringe of eyelashes. “No matter what you think, last night was wonderful. And the only way I know to convince you how wonderful it was is to make love to you again tonight.”
What audacity. After what she'd done, she expected a roll in the hay would make everything right. His jeans were already catching and holding his erection. His heart was already pounding. His damned carnality was yanking at his gullibility, whispering that he should let her convince him.
“I love you, Callaway. I want you.” The tempting mouth puckered, curved in the beginnings of smile. “Oh, don't worry. I'm not asking anything from you. A night of sex. No strings attached. What do you have to lose?”
He bit.
You damned sucker. You stupid damned sucker
. He despised himself for letting his weakness overwhelm his reason, despised himself even as he said, “I thought last night was for Noelle.”
She shook her head. “Last night was for me. No matter what you believe. If I'd realized you would think I used you to save Noelle, I'd have waited to make love to you. Noelle means a lot to me, but not that much.”
She was strong and confident and tempting.
So tempting.
He was tired. Looking at her drained his resentment, his willpower. He had no defenses left.
“Please, Callaway. Let me make love to you again.”
When she settled herself lower in its embrace, the water lapped over her, kissing her shoulders, her breasts, the secret places between her thighs. He wanted to be the water, feel himself losing all form against her skin, feel himself wrapping around her body, filling her, possessing her.
The weight of such want was stifling.
He fastened on what she had said, in one last desperate attempt to save himself from that cursed driving elemental force barely contained by his jeans. “Was it love you made last night, Scarlet? I thought it was something else.” His drawl came out hoarse with longing rather than irony.
“It may have been something else for you.” Her arms were bright with glistening droplets. “But it was love for me. If you can't see that, Callaway McIntyre, you're a lot dumber than I think. Please. Come and love me.”
God, I'm lost.
There wasn't a man alive who could withstand that sultry voice, that humble plea. Why didn't he give in and be done with it? What else could she do to him?
Nothing.
She'd done it all. She'd led him on and rejected him, destroyed his ego and Claire's happiness. Because of her, people he loved were suspects in a murder while an old friend was now an enemy. She'd taken him to the heights, made him believe he was capable of changing and becoming a better person. Then she'd shattered his fantasies and left him the shards.
There was nothing else she could do.
The weight lifted off his shoulders, leaving him buoyant and free to give in.
He sat on the edge of the tub and swung his legs over. The water splashed. A wave rolled over the top and out of the tub.
He fell on her.
He wrapped his arms and legs around her and found her startled mouth and ran his tongue between her lips. He wrapped her hair around his hand and tipped her head back and tasted the water on her neck. He slid his hand down her breasts, sliding it over her stomach and between her legs where he caught and held her.
After a stunned gasp, she burst into laughter. “Callaway.”
His name on her lips was sweet, seductive. Loving.
“You're breaking your own rule.” She reached out, plucked at the band of his waterlogged jeans.
“I can remedy that.” Her laugh had destroyed the tension and anger, the burden he hadn't realized he was carrying.
One day you may know what the consequences will be, but you send them to the devil and let yourself be damned.
He’d snorted when someone said that to him. Who was it?
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
He would pay for this moment, but he didn't care. Being with her here, now, was worth everything it would cost him afterward. To see her smile, have her look at him, let her touch him with such tenderness... She chased thoughts of consequences away.
Precious minutes flew by as he undressed, while she laughed at him and with him, waiting patiently while he wrestled to divest each sodden leg and his underwear. Then he wrestled with her, rolling the wet chemise up to her waist, pulling the thin straps down to bind her elbows so that she couldn't lift her arms to stop him from licking her shoulders, the curve of her breasts, their divide.
The bodice was laced by a ribbon, soaked and hard to untie. He worked the strand out of each eyelet, taking his time until the ribbon was free and the chemise could be dragged over her head. Holding up her wrists, he kissed the faint bruise on one and then the other. “I wasn't sorry about this today.”
“Weren't you?” Her tone forgave him, let him forgive himself. “You are now.”
“Yes.” The ribbon was long, and he took it, stretched it around her back, bringing it beneath her breasts and crossing it between to tie at her neck. Lifting her hips out of the water, he delved his tongue into her navel, running it down her belly and into the soft mound beneath the wet curls.
The spot was there, heated and moist with water and her.
She let him plunder, her fingers tousling and entangling his hair. “Does a ribbon count for clothes?”
He needed the interruption. Reining his lust, he let her slide back into the water. “I can take it off.” He tugged at the ribbon, then pushed up her breasts with his hand and covered her nipples with the thin strand. “But you're right. Clothes are more titillating.” His fingertips moved along the ribbon, tickled her nipples protruding through the satin.
“How long do you intend to play around with that?” Her breathing was labored.
His body was wild, but she was his tonight. Before he was through, she’d know it. “I thought we'd go slow. The way you like.”
She tried to giggle and rise up.
He kept her down. His hand went through the water, to her stomach, to one hip. Rested there. “Very slow.”
“Callaway.” Her hand found his, guided it. Her sighs echoed on the water till she caught him, held him, stroked him.
“I don't want to get off without you,” she murmured. “Please.” Her hand moved languidly. The water became a silken sheath sifting through her fingers.
Too arousing. “If you don't want me to do something dangerous, you'd better stop.”
Her head fell back so she could look up at him from beneath mascaraed lashes. “They’re by the bed.”
He lifted her abruptly.
She squealed. “It’s cold.”
“Because you’re wet. I’ll warm you. Directly.”
He set her on the edge of the tub and climbed out. He would have carried her inside, but she slipped down to run ahead.
“If we keep doing this, we're going to have to try something else,” he said as she circled the bed to meet him at the dresser. “Something easier to get to.”
“All right.” She stepped up and it was his turn to gasp as, without warning, she caught him. She unfolded her other hand to proffer him the packet. “If we keep doing this.”
Trembling fingers barely fitted the condom before she was at him. “Amanda.” He picked her up. “Slow down, slow down. You're rushing it.”
“I can't wait, I want you now.”
She wrapped her arms about his neck and her legs about his hips so he could slip into her as easily as though they'd been made for each other.
No time to reach the bed. His painstaking control fled.
He shoved her onto the dresser, knocking aside vases and books and glasses that tinkled as they broke, and held her there as he thrust against her, over and over until it was too late to hold back the flood. As he poured into her, all thought, all his body dissolved into a mind-bending sweet madness. She arched back and screamed.
Her spasms enveloped his. Hers!
Hers.
Chapter Twenty
Amanda left him before dawn, but not without giving an apologetic warning. “Don't let Noelle know about us. If she finds out, she'll be confused. And she might try to take advantage of you because of it. I‘ve got to help her see she has responsibilities other people can't fulfill for her.”
Cal didn't need her warning. He had no illusions about Noelle. Amanda thought her sister was telling them the truth, but he wasn’t so sure. Not only was Noelle easily led, but she had no sense of right and wrong.
Amanda might not abandon Noelle, but was Noelle as attached to her sister?