The Princess Bride (9 page)

King had brought along his laptop with its built-in fax-modem, and he spent the evening working at the small desk near the window.

Tiffany put on a neat beige trouser suit and fixed her hair in a soft bun atop her head. She didn't even worry with makeup.

“I'm going to the restaurant to have supper,” she announced.

He looked up from his monitor, with quiet, strangely subdued eyes. “Do you want company?”

“Not particularly, thanks.” She went out the door while he was getting used to being an unwelcome tourist.

She sat alone at a table and ate a seafood salad. She had a piña colada with her meal, and the amount of rum it contained sent her head spinning.

She was very happy, all of a sudden, and when a steel band began to play to the audience, she joined in the fun, clapping and laughing with the crowd.

It wasn't until a tall, swarthy man tried to pick her up that she realized how her behavior might be misinterpreted. She held up her left hand and gave the man a smile that held just the right portions of gratitude and regret. He bowed, nonplussed, and she got up to pay her bill.

King was out on the patio when she returned, but he looked at her curiously when she stumbled just inside the closed door and giggled.

“What the hell have you been doing?” he asked.

“Getting soused, apparently,” she said with a vacant smile. “Do you have any idea how much rum they put in those drinks?”

“You never did have a head for hard liquor,” he remarked with a faint smile.

“A man tried to pick me up.”

The smile turned into a cold scowl. He came back into the room slowly. He'd changed into white slacks and a patterned silk shirt, which was hanging open over his dark-haired chest. He looked rakish with his hair on his forehead and his eyes glittering at her.

“I showed him my wedding ring,” she said to placate him. “And I didn't kiss him. It is, after all, my wedding day.”

“A hell of a wedding day,” he replied honestly.

“If I hadn't gone all mushy, we'd still be friends,” she
said with a sad little sigh as the liquor made her honest. “I wish we were.”

He moved a little closer and his chest rose and fell roughly. “So do I,” he admitted tersely. He searched her sad eyes. “Tiffany, I…didn't want to be married.”

“I know. It's all right,” she said consolingly. “You don't have to be. When we get back, I'll go and see an attorney.”

He didn't relax. His eyes were steady and curious, searching over her slender body, seeking out all the soft curves and lines of her. “You shouldn't have grown up.”

“I didn't have much choice.” She smothered a yawn and turned away. “Good night, King.”

He watched her go with an ache in his belly that wouldn't quit. He wanted her, desperately. But an annulment would be impossible if he followed her into her room. And she'd already said that she didn't want him. He turned back to the cool breeze on the patio and walked outside, letting the wind cool his hot skin. He'd never felt so restless, or so cold inside.

 

Tiffany awoke with a blinding headache and nausea thick in her throat. She managed to sit up on the side of the bed in her simple white cotton gown. It covered every inch of her, and she was glad now that she'd decided not to pack anything suggestive or glamorous. She looked very young in the gown and without her makeup, with her dark hair in a tangle around her pale face.

King knocked at the door and then walked in, hesitating in the doorway with an expression of faint surprise when he saw the way she looked. His brows drew together emphatically.

“Are you all right?” he asked curtly.

“I have a hangover,” she replied without looking at him. “I want to die.”

He breathed roughly. “Next time, leave the rum to the experts and have a soft drink. I've got some tablets in my case that will help. I'll bring you a couple. Want some coffee?”

“Black, please,” she said. She didn't move. Her head was splitting.

When he came back, she still hadn't stirred. He shook two tablets into her hand and gave her a glass of water to swallow them with. She thanked him and gave back the glass.

“I'll bring the coffee in as soon as room service gets here,” he said. “I don't suppose you want breakfast, but it would help not to have an empty stomach.”

“I can't eat anything.” She eased back down on the bed, curled up like a child with her eyes closed and a pillow shoved over her aching head.

He left her against his better judgment. A caring husband would have stayed with her, held her hand, offered sympathy. He'd fouled up so much for her in the past few weeks that he didn't think any overtures from him would be welcomed. She didn't even have to tell him why she'd had so much to drink the night before. He already knew.

Minutes later, he entered the room with the coffee and found Tiffany on the floor, gasping for breath. She couldn't seem to breathe. Her face was swollen. Red-rimmed eyes looked up at him with genuine panic.

“Good God.” He went to the phone by her bed and called for a doctor, in tones that made threats if one wasn't forthcoming. Then he sat on the floor beside her, his expression one of subdued horror, trying to reassure her without a single idea what to do. She looked as if she might suffocate to death any minute.

The quick arrival of the doctor relieved his worry, but not for long.

Without even looking at King, the doctor jerked up the telephone and called for an ambulance.

“What did she eat?” the doctor shot at him as he filled a syringe from a small vial.

“Nothing this morning. She had a hangover. I gave her a couple of aspirins a few minutes ago…”

“Is she allergic to aspirin?” he asked curtly.

“I…don't know.”

The doctor gave him a look that contained equal parts of contempt and anger. “You are her husband?” he asked with veiled sarcasm, then turned back to put the needle directly into the vein at her elbow.

“What are you giving her?” King asked curtly.

“Something to counteract an allergic reaction. You'd better go out and direct the ambulance men in here. Tell them not to lag behind.”

King didn't argue, for once. He did exactly as he was
told, cold all over as he took one last, fearful glance at Tiffany's poor swollen face. Her eyes were closed and she was still gasping audibly.

“Will she die?” King choked.

The doctor was counting her pulse. “Not if I can help it,” he said tersely. “Hurry, man!”

King went out to the balcony and watched. He heard the ambulance arrive an eternity of seconds later. Almost at once ambulance attendants came into view. He motioned them up the stairs and into Tiffany's bedroom.

They loaded her onto a gurney and carried her out. Her color was a little better and she was breathing much more easily, but she was apparently unconscious.

“You can ride in the ambulance with her, if you like,” the doctor invited.

King hesitated, not because he didn't want to go with her, but because he'd never been in such a position before and he was stunned.

“Follow in a cab, then,” the other man rapped. “I'll ride with her.”

He muttered under his breath, grabbed his wallet and key, locked the door, and went down to catch a cab at the front of the hotel. It was a simple exercise, there was always a cab waiting and a doorman to summon it.

 

Minutes later, he was pacing outside the emergency room waiting for the doctor to come out. Strange how quickly his priorities had changed and rearranged in the past few minutes. All it had taken was seeing Tiffany
like that. He knew that as long as he lived, the sight of her on the floor would come back to haunt him. It had been so unnecessary. He'd never bothered to ask if she was allergic to anything. He hadn't wanted to know her in any intimate or personal way.

Now he realized that he knew nothing at all, and that his ignorance had almost cost her her life this morning. Nothing was as important now as seeing that she had the best care, that she got better, that she never had to suffer again because of a lack of interest or caring on his part. He might not have wanted this marriage, but divorce was not feasible. He had to make the best of it. And he would.

B
ut the thing that hadn't occurred to him was that Tiffany might not care one way or the other for his concern. When she was released from the hospital later that day, with a warning not to ever touch aspirin again in any form, her whole attitude toward her husband had changed. Every ounce of spirit seemed to have been drained out of her.

She was quiet, unusually withdrawn on the way back to the hotel in the taxi. Her paleness hadn't abated, despite her treatment. The swelling had gone, but she was weak. He had to help her from the taxi and into the hotel.

“I never asked if you had allergies,” King said as he
supported her into the elevator. He pushed the button for their floor. “I'm sorry this happened.”

“The whole thing was my fault,” she said wearily. “My head hurt so bad that it never occurred to me to question what you were giving me. I haven't had an aspirin since I was thirteen.”

He studied her as she leaned back against the wall of the elevator, looking as if she might collapse any minute. “One way or another, you've had a hell of a wedding.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “Yes, I have.”

The elevator jerked to a stop and the doors opened. King abruptly swung her up into his arms and carried her to their room, putting her down only long enough to produce the key and open the door.

She let her head rest on his broad shoulder and closed her eyes, pretending that he loved her, pretending that he wanted her. She'd lived on dreams of him most of her life, but reality had been a staggering blow to her pride and her heart. They were married, and yet not married.

He carried her into the sitting room and deposited her gently on the sofa. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Do you think you could eat something?”

“A cold salad, perhaps,” she murmured. “With thousand island dressing, and a glass of milk.”

He phoned room service, ordering that for her and a steak and salad and a beer for himself.

“I didn't know you ever drank beer,” she mused when he hung up.

He glanced at her curiously. “We've lived in each other's pockets for as long as I can remember,” he said. “Amazing, isn't it, how little we actually know about each other.”

She pushed back her disheveled hair with a sigh and closed her eyes. “I don't think there's a drop of anything left in my poor stomach. I couldn't eat last night. I didn't even have breakfast this morning.”

“And you don't need to lose weight,” he stated solemnly. He scowled as he searched over her body. “Tiffany, you've dropped a few pounds lately.”

“I haven't had much appetite for several months,” she said honestly. “It wasn't encouraged when I was modeling. After I came home, and we…decided to get married, I was too busy to eat a lot. It's been a hectic few weeks.”

He hadn't missed the hesitation when she spoke of their decision to marry. He hated the way she looked. The change in her was so dramatic that anyone who'd known her even a year before wouldn't recognize her.

His heavy sigh caught her attention.

“Do you want to go home?” she asked.

The sadness in her eyes hurt him. “Only if you do,” he said. “There are plenty of things to see around here. We could go up and walk around Rose Hall, for example,” he added, mentioning a well-known historical spot.

But she shook her head. “I don't feel like sight-seeing, King,” she told him honestly. “Couldn't we go home?”

He hesitated. She was worn-out from the rushed
wedding, the trip over here, her experience with the allergic reaction. He wanted to tell her that a night's sleep might make all the difference, but the sight of her face was enough to convince him that she'd do better in her own environment.

“All right,” he said gently. “If that's what you want. We'll leave at the end of the week. I'll try to get tickets first thing in the morning.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Room service came with their orders and they ate in a strained silence. Tiffany finished her salad and coffee and then, pleading tiredness, got up to go to bed.

She started for her own room.

“Tiffany.”

His deep voice stopped her at the doorway. She turned. “Yes?”

“Sleep with me.”

Her heart jerked in her chest. Her eyes widened.

“No,” he said, shaking his head as he got to his feet. “I don't want you that way yet, honey,” he said softly, to lessen the blow of the statement. “You don't need to be alone tonight. It's a king-size bed, and you won't need to worry that I'll take advantage.”

It was very tempting. He'd hardly touched her in almost a month. And although he didn't know it, any fear of having him take advantage of the situation was nonexistent. She sometimes felt that she'd have given six months of her life to have him throw her down onto the nearest available surface and ravish her to the point of
exhaustion. She wondered what he'd say if she admitted that. Probably it would be just one more complication he didn't want. And there was still Carla, waiting back home.

“All right,” she said after a minute. “If you don't mind…”

“Mind!” He bit off the word and turned away before she could see his strained face. “No,” he said finally. “I don't…mind.”

He was behaving very oddly, she mused as she showered and then put on another of her white embroidered gowns. The garment was very concealing and virginal, and there was a cotton robe that matched it, with colorful pastel embroidery on the collar and the hem, and even on the belt that secured it around her trim waist.

When she walked into the other room and approached King's, through the slightly open door she heard him talking on the telephone.

“…be home tomorrow,” he was saying. “I'll want everything ready when I get to the office. Yes, we'll talk about that,” he added in a cold, biting tone. “No, I wouldn't make any bets on it. You do that. And don't foul things up this time or it will be the last mistake you make on my payroll. Is that clear?”

He put down the receiver with an angry breath and ran a hand through his own damp hair. He was wearing an incredibly sexy black velour robe with silver trim. When
he turned, Tiffany's knees went weak at the wide swath of hair-roughened chest it bared to her hungry eyes.

He was looking at her, too. The gown and robe should have been dampening to any man's ardor, because she looked as virginal as he knew she was. But it inflamed him. With her face soft in the lamplight, her eyes downcast, she made him ache.

“Which side of the bed do you want?” he asked curtly.

“I like the left, but it doesn't matter.”

He waved her toward it. Trying not to notice that he was watching her obsessively, she drew off the robe and spread it across the back of a nearby chair before she turned down the covers and, tossing off her slippers, climbed under the sheet.

He looked at her with darkening, narrowed eyes. She could see his heartbeat, it was so heavy. While she watched, his hand went to the loop that secured the belt of his robe and loosened it, catching the robe over one arm to toss it aside. He stood there, completely nude, completely aroused, and let her look.

Her lips parted. It was a blatant, arrogant action. She didn't know what to do or say. She couldn't manage words. He was…exquisite. He had a body that would have made the most jaded woman swoon with pleasure. And, remembering the heated mastery of his lovemaking, her body throbbed all over. It was in her eyes, her flushed face, her shaking heartbeat.

“Take it off,” he said in a husky soft tone. “I want to look at you.”

She wasn't able to think anymore. She clammered out from under the sheet and onto her knees, struggling to throw off the yards of concealing cotton. At last, she tugged it over her head and threw it onto the floor. Her body was as aroused as his. He knew the signs.

He moved around the bed. As he came closer, he caught the rose scent of her. Forgotten was the rocky start to their honeymoon, the accusations, the sudden illness. He approached her like a predator.

She made a helpless little sound and abruptly reached beside her to sweep both pillows off the bed and onto the floor as she surged backward, flat on the sheet, her legs parted, her arms beside her head. She trembled there, waiting, a little afraid of the overwhelming masculinity of him, but hungry and welcoming despite it.

He came onto the bed, slowly, stealthily, as if he still expected her to bolt. One lean, powerful leg inserted itself between both of hers, his chest hovered above hers, his arms slid beside her, his fingers interlaced with her own and pinned them beside her ears.

“It's…pagan.” She choked.

He understood. He nodded slowly, and still his eyes held hers, unblinking, as his leg moved against the inside of hers in a sinuous, sensual touch that echoed the predatory approach of his mouth to her parted lips.

It was like fencing, she thought half-dazed. His body teased her, his mouth teased her, every part of him was
an instrument of seduction. It was nothing like their earlier lovemaking, when he'd kissed her, touched her, even pleasured her. This was the real thing, a prowling, tenderly violent stalking of the female by the male, a controlled savagery of pleasure that enticed but never satisfied, that aroused and denied all at the same time.

Her body shook as if with a fever and she arched, pleaded, pulled, twisted, trying to make him end it. The tension was at a level far beyond any that he'd ever subjected her to.

He touched her very briefly and then, finally—finally!—moved down into the intimacy that she'd begged for. But even as it came, it frightened her. She stiffened, her nails digging into his muscular arms, her teeth biting at her lower lip.

He stilled. His heart was beating furiously, but his eyes, despite their fierce need, were tender.

“First times are always difficult,” he whispered. He held her eyes as he moved again, very gently. “Can you feel me, there?” he murmured wickedly, bending to brush his smiling lips against hers. They rested there as he moved again. “Talk to me.”

“Talk?”
She gasped as she felt him invading her. “Good…Lord…!”

“Talk to me,” he chided, laughing as she clutched him. “This isn't a ritual of silence. We're learning each other in the most intimate way there is. It shouldn't be an ordeal. Look down my body while I'm taking you. See how it looks when we fit together like puzzle pieces.”

“I couldn't!” she gasped.

“Why?” He stilled and deliberately lifted himself for a few seconds. “Look, Tiffany,” he coaxed. “It isn't frightening, or sordid, or ugly. We're becoming lovers. It's the most beautiful thing a man and woman can share, especially when it's as emotional as it is physical. Look at us.”

It was a powerful enticement, and it worked. But her shocked eyes didn't linger. They went quickly back to his, as if to seek comfort and reassurance.

“You're my wife,” he whispered softly. He caught his breath as his next movement took him completely to the heart of her, and his eyes closed and he shivered.

Seeing him vulnerable like that seemed to rob her of fear and the slight discomfort of their intimate position. One of her hands freed itself and moved hesitantly to touch his drawn face, to sift through his thick, cool black hair. His eyes opened, as if the caress startled him.

It was incredible, to look at him and talk to him with the lights on while they fused in the most shocking way. But he didn't seem at all shocked. In fact, he watched her the whole time. When his hips began to move lazily against hers and the shock of pleasure lifted her tight against him, and she gasped, he actually laughed.

“For…shame!” She choked, shivering with each movement as unexpected pleasure rippled through her.

“Why?” he taunted.

“You laughed!”

“You delight me,” he whispered, bending to nibble her
lips as his movements lengthened and deepened. “I've never enjoyed it like this.”

Which was an uncomfortable reminder that he was no novice. She started to speak, but as if he sensed what she was going to say, he suddenly shifted and she was overwhelmed by the most staggering pleasure she'd ever felt.

It possessed her. She couldn't even breathe. She arched up, helpless, her mouth open, her eyes dazed, gasping with each deliberate movement of his body. She was trying to grasp something elusive and explosive, reaching toward it with every thread of her being. It was just out of her reach, almost, almost, tantalizingly close…

“Oh…please!” she managed to say in a shuddering little cry.

He looked somber, almost violent in that instant. He said something, but she didn't hear him. Just as the tension abruptly snapped and she heard her own voice sobbing in unbearable pleasure, his face buried itself in her soft throat and his own body shuddered with the same sweet anguish.

For a long time afterward, his breathing was audible, raspy and unsteady at her ear. She gasped for air, but she was still clinging to him, as if she could retain just a fragment of that extraordinary wave of pleasure that had drowned her for endless seconds.

“It doesn't last,” she whispered shakenly.

“It couldn't,” he replied heavily. “The human body can only bear so much of it without dying.”

Her hands spread on his damp shoulders with a sort of wonder at the feel of him so deep in her body. She moved her hips and felt the pleasure ripple through her unexpectedly.

She laughed at her discovery.

He lifted his dark head and his eyes, sated now, searched hers. “Experimenting?”

She nodded, and moved gently again, gasping as she found what she was searching for. But along with it came a new and unfamiliar stinging sensation and she stilled.

He brushed back her damp hair gently. “Your body has to get used to this,” he murmured. “Right now, you need rest more than you need me.” He moved very slowly and balanced himself on his hands. “Try to relax,” he whispered. “This may be uncomfortable.”