The Colors of Love (23 page)

What nonsense! Losing her virginity had addled her brains. She knew better than to try to make herself into the image another person held of her. She'd tried her damnedest to be the competent, conventional accountant her father wanted her to be, had finally realized she couldn't live her life that way. Alexander Kent would have to take Jamie Ferguson as she was, half-empty wine bottle, embedded sliver, and all.

She dried her hair with the hair drier because there wasn't time to let it air-dry. In consequence, it was wilder than usual, but it would have to do. She didn't want to mousse it, not when she yearned to feel his hands running through her hair, sending her scalp tingling with sensual pleasure. If he did touch her hair again as he had last night, she wanted him to remember it soft and tempting.

She used a light shine gel that tamed the wildness a little, but left her hair soft and natural. Underwear—she decided on a lacy black teddy she'd bought and never worn. She had a collection of tempting undergarments to wear for him, because she'd always loved sensual underwear although until now there had never been anyone to see it.

She smiled as she adjusted the shoulder strap of the teddy. Sinful, she thought, looking at herself in the mirror. That's why she'd never worn it before, because one look at herself in the black lace and she knew there was only one reason a woman would put this on—to tempt her lover.

Maybe she should wear something more ordinary.

She could still feel a strange fullness deep inside herself, the unfamiliar residue of a night spent with a lover. Tonight, she wanted very much for him to stay with her, to sleep here in her bed. She wanted to wake so entangled with him that she couldn't tell where she ended and he began.

She grabbed the big colorful shirt she had worn to her opening. Alone, without the slim elegant pants, the shirt showed off the length of her bare legs.

Someone knocked on her front door.

Alex? No, too early.

Barefoot, she walked to the front door. Her foot didn't hurt too much, not as long as she walked on the outside edge. She wondered if it would be better, or worse, when she put her high-heeled sandals on.

She gripped the door and pulled it open.

Chapter 13

He'd meant to be on time, or perhaps a few minutes late. But he'd done remarkably well with the article, finishing the rough draft in a surge of energy, so he'd hurried getting ready, shaving and driving here to tell her.

His hand was rapping on her door before he realized how strange that was, coming here to tell
Jamila
about the journal article. She knew nothing about medicine, no more than any layman, and he had no desire to educate her.

And hadn't he told himself that tonight he needed to negotiate a parting?

The door opened before he was ready for her.

Her hair seemed more vibrant than ever. He reached to touch, couldn't stop himself. She came into his arms as his fingers threaded through her hair, her lips open and eager. His arms closed around her, and with her soft warmth pressed against him, he had no choice but to bury his mouth in the temptation of hers.

This wasn't in the plan, but he couldn't seem to let her go. She felt so good, so wonderfully right in his arms.
I missed you,
he almost said, but he couldn't miss a woman he'd been apart from for only six hours.

He managed finally to step back, to release her, and forced his hands to drop to his sides. "Jamila."

She stood in front of him, wearing something loose and colorful that fell straight from her shoulders to her thighs. Her legs were naked below the dress or shirt—whatever it was. Then she moved, stepping back, and he realized the garment's side seam was split, that her naked thigh peeked through as she moved, soft flesh and the briefest glimpse of black lace.

He swallowed hard.

"Come in," she said, opening the door wider. He saw then that she was barefoot, and somehow that made his heart pound even harder.

This was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. He'd made love to her last night, and twice this morning. He couldn't be feeling this painful need so soon. Maybe he hadn't lied to Diana after all, maybe he was coming down with a virus, perhaps the first case of a new, virulent superbug.

"Yeah," he said, "I'll come in."
Brilliant conversation,
he thought desperately. Absolutely brilliant. "Are you... did you..."

He got the door closed behind himself. Better to shut up, he decided. He shouldn't have come. Six hours apart wasn't nearly enough. He needed to find an out-of-town conference to attend, else fly to Venice and surround himself with Diana until he remembered what he really wanted for himself.

"Did you paint this afternoon?"

"Yes." She sounded breathless. "But I can't show it to you, not yet."

He remembered the first time he'd stood in front of one of her paintings, how he'd felt as if he'd been punched in the gut with pure need. He was better off staying away from the paintings here in her house. He'd view them in the gallery, where circumstances didn't invite him to remember that her bed—which he'd never seen—couldn't be more than a few steps away.

"Come out on the balcony," she said, leading the way toward her studio.

"You're limping." He caught up to her and grasped her wrist with his hand. A mistake. Her heart beat against his fingers. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"A broken bowl."

Last night, as he thrust inside her, her eyes had blazed hot green fire. Now they were dark, subdued.

"What?" he asked, holding hard to her words. "You cut yourself?"

"Stepped on a shard." She grimaced, but her eyes held his as if he were deep inside her. "I couldn't get it out."

"Get it out?" He shook himself mentally, told himself to let go of her wrist. He'd come to say good-bye, hadn't he? "You've got a sliver of glass in your foot and you're walking on it?"

"Wedgwood china. It was my mother's favorite. Squiggles knocked it off the counter."

She shifted and he snapped, "Stay off that foot, you'll drive it deeper." Then he had her in his arms, swept her up without realizing he was going to. Her lips were inches from his, close enough to take. "Where's your bedroom?" he growled.

"Back there, beyond the kitchen."

He clenched his jaw and took her there, laid her on the bed and forced himself to stare at her eyes, not the length of her creamy thighs against the plush quilted spread, the black lace now clearly visible where the thing she was wearing pulled up on her right hip.

"Where's your medicine cabinet?"

"Bathroom," she said on a whisper.

He jerked away from her, found the bathroom medicine cabinet sparsely equipped. He grabbed a pair of tweezers he wouldn't have counted on to grasp a sliver the size of his finger, much less a thin shard of china.

He found a needle on a pincushion, went into the kitchen, and sterilized it on the stove where something red that smelled delicious was bubbling. He realized he hadn't eaten lunch.

He returned to the bedroom to find her sitting on the side of the bed, the fabric of her garment covering her thighs almost to the knee.

"Roll over on your stomach."

She stared at him, and he had no idea what she might be thinking.

"On your stomach. No, not that way, across the bed so the light falls on your foot."

He switched on the lamp and turned back to find she'd squirmed into the position he described. As he stared at the wonderful curve of her buttocks, her hand came back and tugged on the fabric of her—damn it, he'd call it a dress—tugged on her dress, covering a millimeter of additional flesh. He reached out, knew that if he touched her, stroked the length of her thigh as he wanted to, he would be lost.

He swallowed and sat beside her legs, grasped her foot and tried to imagine the rest of her body was covered by a sterile hospital gown.

A patient, think of her as a patient.

His patients were children, not seductive women.

He picked up the cotton, tilted the antiseptic bottle, and swabbed the sole of her foot. Then, mercifully, the habits of his profession took over, calming his body and his mind.

"Keep still," he cautioned when her foot twitched. Then he carefully grasped the needle he'd inserted into the box of Band-Aids, making sure its sterile tip remained uncontaminated. He could see an inflamed area at the front of her arch. He probed gently with his thumb, noting her gasp when he neared the center of the reddened area. He could see where the shard had entered.

"You must have taken part of it out," he said.

"Yes. I thought I got it, but it still hurts."

The remnant of the shard made a shadow on her skin. "Breathe deeply and let your body relax. It's going to hurt, but only for a moment."

As he said the words, he couldn't stop himself remembering last night, the instant when he'd taken her and she'd cried out. He'd tried to stop, tried desperately... failed.

He held her foot firmly, carefully inserted the needle to the left of the shadow. He felt her foot twitch as he caught the shard.

"Easy, I'm almost finished."

He heard her gasp as he dug for the shard, and forced himself to ignore the effect of her sound on him. There, he had it! With one steady motion, he slid the shard out of her skin. He laid the needle and shard on her bedside table and carefully probed her foot again.

"Feel anything?"

"No, it's gone. Thanks." She twisted under his hands.

"Lie still," he said, swabbing the small wound with antiseptic again before he reached for the Band-Aid box.

His hands trembled now. He'd been a doctor for a dozen years, for heaven's sake, had removed everything from ticks to staples from children's flesh, but he was trembling because he'd just taken a shard from his lover's flesh, because she'd gasped and he'd felt her pain.

"There, it's done." He picked up the antiseptic, the Band-Aids, and the needle.

The dress twisted as she turned, pulling tight over her hips. She propped herself up with one arm, her breasts thrust out by the motion. He could see the black lace where the dress had twisted over her hip, the long naked length of her legs, the waterfall of her hair spilling over her shoulders.

Carefully, he set the things in his hands down on her bedside table, allowed his hand to rest on her ankle. He could feel her pulse. Wherever he touched her, he felt her heart beating, or his.

Her eyes were green flames; her mouth, lips parted, seemed uncertain.

"I want you." He couldn't seem to stop the words. "It doesn't matter that we made love only a few hours ago, that I was satisfied as much as a man can be. It doesn't matter that you're wrong, completely wrong for me. I want you. I need you now."

She reached for him and he let himself slide along the length of her, let his hand cradle her head, and felt triumph as she arched back and he buried his mouth in her throat.

When he lifted his head, her eyes were glazed. Then slowly, so slowly, he began to unfasten the buttons of her dress. This time he would take time to pleasure her, would keep his reason long enough to watch her go over the edge.

As he pushed the lapels of her dress aside, he saw her sensual black lace undergarment and felt the thrill of knowing that she had dressed for him, only for him. She'd been a virgin, might never have dressed like this for any other man.

He bent and took the peak of one swollen breast into his mouth through the black lace, felt her moan as he gently caught the erect peak of her nipple between his teeth. With his hands, his mouth, and his body, he caressed her through the black lace, touching her in ways designed to inflame, glorying in her response.

When he pulled the lace from her shoulders and uncovered her breasts, she arched and cried out at the feel of his mouth on her naked breast. His body clenched and he came close to losing the rigid control he'd imposed, but forced his own desperation down and let himself pleasure her.

Then she was naked, gloriously naked in his arms, and he knew he'd only seconds of sanity left. He took her breast deeply in his mouth as his fingers found the hot, wet center of her passion.

She cried out, a long, thin gasp of release, and he felt her convulse around his hand. He held her until the spasms faded, then he buried his mouth in hers, kissing her deeply, stroking gently until he felt her grow restless in his arms again.

Her mouth grew hungry, abruptly needy, and he rolled with her, mouths joined, his hands on her hips. She broke away from him, hands on his chest, eyes wild as she stared down at him, hair tumbled around her face and brushing his chest. He could feel himself throbbing against her belly. He grasped her hips and lifted her, felt her legs clench against his thighs. He stared up into her eyes as she lowered herself onto him, his world spinning hot as her eyes lost focus and her mouth parted on a sigh of wonder.

He thrust into her, felt her clench around him and heard his own moan as he gripped her hips and drove himself into her tight, wet heat again and again. His eyes were slits barely passing light when he saw her throw her head back and he thrust hard, emptying himself into her as the ecstasy of her sex clenched around him in the uncontrollable spasm of her climax.