Warrior's Embrace (4 page)

His voice mesmerized her. She
felt
soft and beautiful. Even without her makeup. Even with her hair not
fixed. Even with her crow’s-feet showing in the sun.

“You have a lovely smile, Virginia.”

“Thank you.” He was enough to make an
Egyptian mummy smile. “I didn’t expect you this soon. Did you mean
to catch me off guard?”

He took one more shot, then slung the camera
over his shoulder, stepped in close, and gazed down at her.

“No, Virginia. An hour was too long to wait
to see you.”

The heat started in her cheeks, spread over
her neck, and across her breasts. He was dangerous and persuasive.
And she was alone with him, alone with nothing on under her
robe.

“Why?” she said.

“For this.” He cupped her face and drew her
gently to him. There was no hurry in him, no urgency, just a
beautiful certainty as he fitted their bodies together, legs
touching, hips perfectly matched, chests pressed close. He draped
her arms around his neck and wrapped his around her waist and
back.

“And this,” he whispered. Then he took her
lips. It was not an assault but a kiss as soft as the first rains
of summer.

Virginia didn’t stop to weigh consequences;
she just let go.

His lips were tender, his breath sweet, and
his kiss as whisper soft as the brush of butterfly wings.

“Virginia...” he whispered.

“Bolton... we shouldn’t.”

“We’ve already gone beyond that. It’s fate.
Out of our control.”

She took his hand and led him into her house.
He needed no urging. At the foot of the staircase he swept her into
his arms and carried her up.

“To the left,” she whispered.

There was no pausing at the bedroom door.
Boldly he carried her inside. In a slow, sensuous movement he let
her slide down his body until her feet touched the floor.

He dropped his cameras onto the chaise
longue, his shirt on the dressing stool, and his pants and shoes
beside the bed.

Naked, he was a work of art. Without
speaking, she walked around him, touching, letting her fingers
graze the magnificent breadth of his chest, sinking them into the
fine dark hair, running them down his belly.

He smiled at her, then lifted her into his
arms and spread her across the bed. Kneeling over her, he traced
her cheekbones, her brow, her lips with his fingertips. A lock of
black hair hung over his forehead, and she brushed it back.

“I want to see your face,” she said, letting
her fingers memorize him. “You take my breath away.”

Slowly he untied her sash, peeled off her
robe, and flung it onto the floor.

“You won’t be needing that.”

His rhythms were as graceful as music, and
the song invaded every part of Virginia, its cadences and harmonies
balm for her body, her heart, her soul. She felt reborn, as if the
woman who had struggled to prove herself over and over again had
vanished and in her place was somebody with wings, somebody who
knew how to fly.

“You are so good,” she murmured, “so very,
very good.”

”We’re
good. It’s us, Virginia, you
and me together.”

He paused and studied her face. His sudden
smile was as dazzling as the sun.

“I’ve spent all my life looking for you.”

“Shhh.” She put her hand over his lips.
“Don’t say things in the heat of passion that you won’t mean in the
cold light of day.”

“I never say things I don’t mean.” He took up
his rhythm again.
“Never.”

There was none of the awkwardness of new
lovers between them. Their minds were as connected as their bodies.
A mere thought from her became action from him. He understood her
sighs, her moans. He knew her moods, her desires, her
preferences.

The years rolled away, the years of
sacrificing her own desires for the sake of her child and her
career, and she was once again a woman, a woman by turns tender and
bawdy, gentle and fiery. She felt fulfillment and hunger at the
same time.

For the beautiful moments they lay together
in her bed she believed that all she had to do was reach out and
Bolton would be there, all she had to do was call and he would come
running, all she had to do was wish for this magical joining and he
would make it happen.

But when the loving was over, when they lay
tangled together on her sheets, she knew that she was being the
worst kind of fool, the kind who believed in miracles. She’d
learned long ago that the only miracles were those earned by sweat
and toil and intelligence and perseverance and sacrifice.

Bolton laced their fingers together and
squeezed. She could almost see him gathering his wits to make a
pretty speech.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t say anything except
the truth.”

“What truth?”

“I needed this but now it’s over and done
with and neither of us has to pretend it was anything except great
sex.”

“That’s not the truth, Virginia.”

She pulled away from him, put on her robe,
and curled up on the chaise longue.

“I’ve been called worse names than a liar.”
She folded her hands tightly together to keep them from betraying
her with their awful shaking.

Without a word Bolton got off the bed, knelt
beside the chaise, and gently unfolded her hands. Then he kissed
her fingertips, one by one. His actions were far more revealing
than denials.

“If what we had was just good sex, why are
you trembling?”

“I didn’t get enough sleep last night. I’m an
insomniac. It happens with age.”

He said nothing, merely lifted one caustic
eyebrow.

She stared at him, waiting for him to fill
the silence with excuses, waiting for him to push her into anger.
She
was
mad, unaccountably mad, and she wanted some reason
to show it. Tilting her chin up, she dared him to give her a
reason.

Bolton remained as implacable as the mountain
from which he had come. Still kneeling, he began a slow, erotic
massage of her feet. That alone was enough to make Virginia forget
her anger and confusion, make her forget that he might be after her
money or her secrets or both, make her forget the horrible age gap
that separated them. When his hands moved over her legs, she knew
she was lost and nothing else mattered except his touch.

Closing her eyes, she let herself go limp. It
felt amazing to be spontaneous and reckless and absolutely
feminine.

“That feels so good,” she whispered.

“Yes, it does.”

He untied the sash and opened her robe so
that she lay upon the chaise like a fallen flower. He tasted her,
lingering so long that she lost all reason. When she was finally
limp and satisfied, he lifted her into his arms and held her
against his chest.

“This is not about your money,” he said, as
if he had read her mind. “It’s not about your profession and mine.
It’s about us, Virginia.”

She was too far gone to argue with him. She
laced her arms and him and leaned on cheek on his chest.

“Take me back to bed, Bolton.”

“And then what, Virginia?”

“You know....”

“Say it.”

“Are you going to make me beg?”

“No. I want to hear you say the words.” His
eyes were so intensely blue, she was almost blinded by them. “Say
the words, Virginia.”

“They’re just words.”

“Say them.”

She closed her eyes, but even then she could
see his face, naked with emotion.

“They’re just words,” she repeated, closing
her eyes to shut out his face. His lips brushed hers softly,
tenderly. And she was lost.

“Make love to me,” she whispered.

“Yes. I will love you.”

He lowered her to the bed. Pinioned against
the sheets, she looked up at him. There was no triumph in his face,
no sense of victory, only passion, raw and pure.

“And you will love me.” It was the last thing
he said to her, the last thing that needed to be said.

What they did in her bedroom needed no words.
What they did was too beautiful for words, too powerful, too
sacred. What happened between them was a rare gift, too precious to
cast aside.

Virginia knew that as soon as his job was
finished he would leave her and never look back, leave Mississippi
and forget about the woman whose heart he had stolen.

One week. Two. It didn’t matter how long he
stayed. What mattered was what they did with the time. Call her
selfish, call her foolish, call her anything at all, but Virginia
knew what she was, understood what she was doing.

She was a woman who had spent too many years
in the twin prisons of responsibility and fame. Bolton had handed
her the key, and she was going to take it. For today and tomorrow
and all the days that he was in Mississippi, she was going to be
free. And when he was gone she’d shut herself up with her
responsibilities and her computer and her money and her fame and
never look back with regret.

Never.

He photographed her leaning against an oak
tree with the late-afternoon sun filtering through the leaves and
dappling her with gold.

“You are so beautiful,” he said. “Soft and
lush and satisfied.”

“You make me feel that way.”

He took aim, and she tilted her head back,
laughing. He captured her that way, happier than she ever
remembered being, in love with life, in love with the world. A
shower of leaves fell on her white blouse and settled in the folds
of her full peasant skirt. She bent over to brush them away, then
changed her mind and playfully flicked them in his direction. With
cameras whirring, he caught her in the falling leaves, caught her
as she moved in close, eyes gleaming with erotic intent.

Camera forgotten, they tumbled among the
leaves as playful as children. Their playfulness quickly turned to
passion, and they made slow, beautiful love on a golden carpet of
leaves with the sun burnishing their skin.

“I can’t get enough of you,” she said.

“You don’t have to get enough of me,
Virginia. I’m here. I’ll be here.”

Full of him, full of pleasure, full of joy,
she could imagine herself waking every day to find Bolton beside
her, reaching out to touch the pillow that had been empty for so
many years and finding this magnificent man who could turn her
inside out with a single glance.

Propped on her elbows, she gazed down at
him.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“For food or you?”

“Food. We missed lunch, and if we keep this
up, we’re going to miss dinner.”

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“Me too.” She kissed him on the cheek, then
stood up and adjusted her clothes. “However, if you’re to keep up
your strength, you have to eat.”

She loved his hearty masculine laughter,
loved the way he lifted her off the ground and hugged her close.
Noses touching, lips a hairbreadth away, he whispered, “You want me
to keep up my strength, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Any reason I should know about?”

“If you’re as smart as I think you are, you
probably already know the reason.”

“Indulge me. Tell me.”

“For this.” She kissed him, lightly at first
and then with such intensity that they were both breathless.

“And this.” She ran her tongue down the side
of his neck. “And this.” She caressed his back, as far down as her
arms would reach.

“That will do for starters.” He nudged open
the front of her blouse and goose bumps the size of golf balls ran
over her.

“You like that, don’t you, Virginia?”

“Yes. I like everything you do to me.”

“Not
to
you. With you. Love has to
be reciprocal.”

There it was.
Love.

“Why do you insist on using that word,
Bolton?”

“Because it’s true.”

“Love only happens this fast in fiction.”

“My parents fell in love at first sight. And
I’ve never seen any two people so happy together.”

She tried to wiggle her way out of his arms,
but he wouldn’t let her go.

“Put me down, Bolton.”

“Why? So you can huff off somewhere and try
to justify your mistaken notions?”

“I don’t have any mistaken notions. I know
exactly what this is: it’s a wildly passionate affair that will end
as soon as this interview is over.”

“I’m not doing the interview.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I won’t do the interview.”

“But you
have
to. It’s your
job.”

“I choose the jobs I want to do. I’m choosing
not to do this one.”

He set her on her feet and pinned her against
the tree.

“You can’t do that,” she said.

“Do what, Virginia? Keep you pinned against
this tree?” His eyes sparkled with mischief as he pressed his hips
closer. “Just watch me.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m half Apache. We’re known for taking the
women we love captive, especially ornery, opinionated, stubborn
women like you.”

“Stubborn? I don’t hold a candle to you,
Bolton Gray Wolf.”

“What happened to make you so distrustful of
men, Virginia?”

“Is this an interview question?”

“I told you, I’m no longer doing the
interview.”

“You
have
to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve promised to grant one
interview, and if you don’t do it, then I’ll be stuck with some
arrogant upstart who’d like nothing better than to dish the dirt on
me.

“Does that mean you no longer suspect me of
going to bed with you so I can learn your secrets?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Not exactly in those words.”

“Look... can I help it if I have this
built-in distrust of journalists?”

“Haven’t we gone beyond that, Virginia? When
are you going to start viewing me as a person instead of a
profession? When are you going to learn to trust me?”

“You’re tough. No wonder you’re good.”