Infamous (10 page)

He looked down and saw the candlelight flickering on his own skin, swore he felt the flames dance across his body with the light and shadow. Wherever they touched, he burned, and the flames spread until he was nothing but burning need.

He turned back to Jessica. Her arms were doing their own dance, serpentine and mesmerizing. He reached out and captured one outstretched hand. She let him pull her toward him, hips rolling suggestively even after he managed to get his hands on either side of her waist.

“Jess,” he forced words through the flames. “What do you want?”

She stilled. Then she smiled her concubine’s smile.

“I want to be whatever you want.”

It was every man’s fantasy.

The sultan reached for her and guided her head down, thrust his hips up to meet her welcoming mouth. Possessed and took.

But Morgan didn’t want a concubine. He pulled her up his body until they were face-to-face. He rolled so he was on top and she was looking up at him. She twined her arms around his neck, and he let her pull his head down until they were almost touching. He ran his fingers through her hair, dislodging the headdress and tossing it over the side of the bed. He placed slow, gentle kisses along the corner of her eyes, the curve of her cheekbones, the corner of her mouth. When he settled his mouth over hers, she sighed. The sound was more seductive than any drumbeat.

He slid his hand between their bodies, pushed aside the veils until he found the softer silk underneath. He stroked delicately, asking, not taking. Her body answered, yielding, giving. He wanted more, wanted her to burn for him the way he burned for her. He delved inside of her, looking for the heat, the fire until she moaned feverishly under him.

Only then did he roll onto his back, lift her up and slide into her molten center.

She caught the beat of the drums again, rolling her hips and arching her back. His hands found the veils, the heavy belt, the beaded bra and they fell away one by one until there was only Jessica, the drums and the fire.

When it was over, she collapsed against him. He rolled to the side spooning her into the curve of his body. He should get up, blow out the candles, turn off the music. Instead he buried his face in her neck so the scent of Jessica drowned out the heavy perfume of the candles. The drums were fading into the night when her words came back to him.

Whatever you want me to be.

He wanted to examine them, find the trick, the hidden meaning, but he couldn’t hold on to the thought.

You. Just you. Just mine.

Jessica smiled across the table at Morgan. The restaurant was discreet rather than trendy, and boasted enough Michelin stars to attract the discerning diner. There were no paparazzi outside, but the procession of high-end sports cars and chauffeured town cars out front told its own story about the type of clientele that could be found inside. It was the sort of place favored by the names behind the scenes in Hollywood, the financiers and bankers rather than the stars.

The maitre d’ had greeted Morgan by name and shown them to a secluded table. Across from her, Morgan was studying the wine list with the same care she imagined he gave to his client’s bottom line. He looked sexy as hell, his dark hair gleaming in the soft candlelight from the table. She looked closer. Was that product in his hair? Could it be her influence?

She had taken great pains with her own appearance. Morgan had dropped the invitation casually enough, “Let’s go out to dinner Saturday night. Wear something nice.” Despite his off-hand tone, she had been excited. Morgan was taking her out to dinner. It would be just the two of them, no Kinsey. There wasn’t any reason for it except the pleasure of each other’s company.

She had agonized over what to wear. In her own crowd, she would know the right thing for any social occasion. With Morgan, she wasn’t so sure. She had settled on a deceptively simple little black dress. It was classic enough to be acceptable anywhere, just retro enough to be trendy.

She had regretted the lack of a hairdresser at the last minute, but between the two of them, she and Kinsey had managed a credible up-do. Kinsey had loitered in front of the vanity with her while she was getting ready.

“Ohmigod, you look awesome — like a movie star.” Kinsey picked up an eyelash curler and tried it experimentally on her own lashes. “You look like your mom. You know, before she got old.”

Jessica smothered a laugh. Her mother would be calling plastic surgeons around the globe if she could hear that description.

“I’ve got all her old movies,” Kinsey continued blithely. “What’s she like, is she fabulous like you?”

Jessica paused, makeup brush in midair as she considered the question.

“Fabulous,” she said, loathe to pop Kinsey’s bubble. Then, more honestly, “Vain, selfish, spoiled, superficial … yeah, we’re a lot alike.”

Kinsey poked her in the arm with an eyeliner. “Get real, you’re not like that.”

Jessica ran her eye over the top of the vanity. She was pretty sure her cosmetics tab ran higher than a mortgage payment for the average American. You couldn’t get much more vain and superficial than that.

Kinsey was still talking, “Can I meet her, sometime?”

“Sure, sweetie, next time she’s in L.A. I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

It was true. Kinsey was a fan, and therefore dear to her mother’s heart.

“I don’t know when it will be, though,” she cautioned. “She hasn’t been back in the States for years.”

“My mom died.” Three little words, but they sent a little ripple of panic through Jessica. She wasn’t up for any conversation that included Kinsey’s mom. What if she said the wrong thing?

“I’m sure she loved you very much.” That seemed safe.

Kinsey shrugged. “Gran’s neighbor, Mrs. Neely, said she was a drunken slut.”

Shit
. What kind of dried-up old bitch said that to a kid? Not that she hadn’t heard worse about her own mother. But that was different.

“Everyone has problems,” she tried to match Kinsey’s offhand tone. “It doesn’t mean she didn’t love you.”

“Yeah, I know. Dad said she used to spend hours just watching me sleep, so I guess she must have loved me.”

This apparently closed the subject for Kinsey. Jessica gave an inner sigh of relief. Maybe she wasn’t doing too badly at this stepmom thing.

“Jessie?” Kinsey had applied a coat of clear gloss to her lips and was studying the effect in the mirror. “Am I pretty?”

“Gorgeous, dahlin’,” Jessica drawled. Here was a subject she could handle. “You look mahvelous.”

Kinsey shook her head. “No, I mean really pretty, like you and your mom — pretty like guys like.”

She started to make another glib response, then checked herself. This was serious to Kinsey. An off-the-cuff reply wouldn’t do. She put down the make-up brush and turned to study her for a minute before answering. At thirteen, Kinsey was a typical adolescent — stick thin and just beginning to show signs of the woman she would become. With her brown hair bleached by the sun, she was a softer, lighter version of Morgan, complete with the sharp glint of intelligence in her eyes. Not for the first time, Jessica wondered if Kinsey had indulged in a little matchmaking to get her back here. Like her father, she tended to be goal-oriented.

“You
are
pretty,” she said, “and you will be beautiful one day. As for glamour, all this,” she gestured at the counter of the vanity, “anyone who knows a few tricks can achieve that. The right genetics helps, but it’s not mandatory.”

“But I want guys to like me.”

“They will, honey, trust me. That’s not the important part. The important part is finding the
right
guy.”

“I want a guy with a six-pack, that’s what all the girls want.”

Jessica poked her belly. “Well, hard abs are nice …” she grinned, “but they aren’t everything.”

“Dad has pretty good abs … for an old guy.”

“True that.” She nodded. “But that’s not why I married him. I know lots of guys with even better abs than your Dad.”

“So, why did you pick Dad?”

“Because he was the one that made me not care about the hard abs on all the other guys.”

“Huh, I don’t get it.”

“I think you have a few years before you have to worry about it. Just remember that finding the perfect guy doesn’t have anything to do with finding the perfect abs.”

Now she was sitting across the table from Morgan, who, she smiled into her martini, did indeed have pretty good abs for an old guy. She recalled how he had sucked in his breath as she had kissed her way down them just last night, enjoying the taste and the feel of him as she worked her way lower.

So far her plan to break Morgan’s iron control in the sack was having little success. She had tried a different approach every night. Last night had been the leather and restraints. She had been so confident of that one, since it put her in charge. Morgan had played right along, letting her put his wrists in the padded cuffs and have her wicked way with him. Somehow, despite the restraints, he had used his deep, rough voice to coax her into being the first over the edge.

On the bright side, the sex was phenomenal. She’d never had a lover that inspired her to be this creative. She found it secretly amusing that staid, conservative-seeming Morgan was the one to do so.

“Jess? Have you decided?” His voice startled her out of her reverie. The waiter was standing by the table, ready to take her order. She scanned the menu.

“Do you want to do the tasting menu?”

Morgan nodded, “Always an excellent choice here.” He handed the menus back to the hovering waiter. “Tell Henri we are in his hands.”

After the waiter left, Morgan smiled at her. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

The heat in his eyes was making her toes curl. Lots of men told her she was beautiful, but somehow when Morgan said it she went all fluttery inside. She tried to hang on to her composure.

“Thank you,” she said, “Make sure and tell Kinsey you like the hair, she was my stylist for the evening.”

“I have my own contribution to the outfit that I haven’t given you yet.” Morgan reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thin jeweler’s box. She opened it curiously. She gasped. Inside was a beautiful deco style diamond and platinum bracelet.

It must be worth a fortune!

“I thought of you when I saw it. It’s vintage, though. If you don’t like it, I can take it back and get you something more contemporary.”

She shook her head, at a loss for words.

“It’s amazing. I love it. What’s the occasion, though?”

“No occasion, it just occurred to me that when a man has a beautiful wife he should buy her beautiful things.”

Morgan wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he lifted out the bracelet and fastened it around her wrist. His thumb lingered, stroking her pulse next to the diamonds.

“If you want a reason, though, let’s just say that you’ve been exceeding my expectations in the monogamy department. I know you said I wouldn’t be bored, but I didn’t expect you to take the job so seriously.”

She lowered her lashes so he couldn’t see the hurt in her eyes. He couldn’t mean that the way it sounded. It was the kind of thing a man said to his mistress, not his wife. She wondered if he had bought the bracelet with her in mind at all, or if he had just had the jeweler send over something in the appropriate price range for a spoiled trophy wife. The beautiful bracelet felt like a manacle around her wrist.

All her happiness in the evening vanished. Was that how Morgan saw her? A beautiful possession? Something he could buy for his enjoyment and convenience? When they first met, she hadn’t thought so. She had thought he loved her as much as she loved him. It was only later that she realized he had never said the words.

Her insecurities about moving back into his life crashed down on her. She still wasn’t satisfied with his reasons for wanting her back. Was it pride? She knew he didn’t like to fail. A divorce might have seemed like a very personal failure to him. Or maybe she really was just a pretty convenience. Why bother with a nanny and a mistress when you could get both in one package deal?

“What would I have to do to earn a matching necklace?” She thought she had hidden the little barb of sarcasm under her trademark throaty purr, but apparently she was a little off stride tonight. Morgan’s eyes narrowed and he gave her a sharp look. Then he smiled and ran his thumb up her palm, sending little shivers through her.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something if you’re motivated.”

She wanted to snatch her hand away from him, but years of playing the bad girl in public kept her calm and smiling. She wasn’t the daughter of an Oscar-winning actress for nothing. If Morgan wanted a whore, she would oblige him.

She relaxed, letting herself lean toward him over the table. She uncrossed her legs, wiggling suggestively as she repositioned herself. Sighing, she ran a calculating tongue over her lips and then caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she peered up at him though her lashes. As expected, Morgan’s eyes were riveted to her mouth.

“Got any suggestions?” she asked.

“Jessica — ” Morgan’s tone was an amused warning, but his eyes had darkened with desire.

Under the table, Jessica toed off one black pump. The pumps matched the almost-demure black dress. They were almost boring, almost conservative, the type of black peep-toe pumps any woman might keep as a staple in her closet … unless you counted the four-and-a-half inch stiletto heel and the trademark Louboutin red sole that turned them into something else altogether.

She eased her foot out of the designer leather and slid it along the floor until she made contact with the sole of Morgan’s sensible black oxford. Very slowly, maintaining continuous eye contact, she began sliding her foot up his calf. Morgan’s eyes widened and Jessica smiled at him as her foot continued its upward journey.

“Jessica … .” His voice was a low growl.

She blinked artlessly.

“Morgan?”

He opened his mouth, but just then her foot finished its climb and made its way over the edge of the chair and into his lap. There was an unmistakable bulge in his trousers. She stroked delicately.