He didn’t say a word. He picked her up in his arms, and she realized again how very strong he was. And she wasn’t afraid.
He carried her through the dark, cluttered apartment, into the bedroom where it was as warm and dark as a cocoon. She liked the darkness, the quiet rustling of her clothing as he pulled the dress over her head, the touch of his hard, deft hands on her skin.
She was standing at the edge of the bed, wearing only her underwear. Her knees were trembling, her whole body was shaking, but she didn’t move as he pressed his mouth against the base of her throat, kissing her openmouthed, breathing in her flying pulses.
And then he spoke, breaking through her drugged senses. “Yes?” It was a question, not a demand, asked patiently.
She wanted to hide in the dark, in the silence, leaving it all up to him. She wanted to lie back and close her eyes and let the magic happen, something dreamy and disembodied. But he was standing there, asking her, and she knew she had to answer.
She knew what the answer had to be. A solid, resounding no. She was through with being self-destructive. Going to bed with a liar, a user like Maguire would be the ultimate mistake. There was only one thing she could say.
“Yes.”
The room was pitch-black, but he knew she liked it that way. Needed it. He’d gotten her to say yes, to admit she wanted this. But she was still frightened, he could feel it in the hammering heartbeat, the coolness of her skin, the thready pulse beneath.
So be it. He could deal with her fear, lure her beyond her panic into a world of flesh and blood and pleasure. He just needed her agreement.
He slid his hands over her shoulders, hooking his thumbs under her bra straps and pulling them down her arms. He heard her choked gasp, but she didn’t protest.
It was the same bra she’d worn this morning, sinfully easy to unfasten. He wanted to see her breasts as he drew the bra from her body, but it was too dark. He’d have to settle for touch.
He kissed the base of her throat again, letting his teeth just brush against her sensitive flesh. And then he kissed her between her breasts, letting his tongue dance over her heartbeat.
He kissed her stomach. It was flat, and he suddenly had the strange, erotic image of her stomach rounded, swollen with his child, and he almost backed away from her, shocked by the power of that unbidden image.
He had his own fears, too. But not enough to make him pull back from her in the rich, beckoning darkness.
He reached for her panties, ready to draw them down her hips, when his hands faltered. It took him just a moment to realize she’d filched a pair of his briefs from the bedroom. And the thought of her wearing them was almost unbearably arousing. Without giving her any preparation he slid his hand down the front of the shorts, touching her through the thick cotton, and she let out a muffled shriek that was pure panic.
“I’ve changed my mind.” Her voice broke the velvet silence—nervous, high-pitched, ready to run.
“Have you?” he asked calmly. He didn’t take his hand away from her, and she was too frightened to move. He stroked her slowly, gently through the cloth, taking his time. “Why?” He sounded no more than vaguely curious. He still wasn’t quite sure how to handle her—whether she needed tender wooing or brute force, whether she was even ready for this. If he made the wrong move…but he wasn’t going to. Making love to Charlie had suddenly become the most important thing in the world to him. He wasn’t worried about his own pleasure—he could come just from looking at her.
But she needed to know the pleasure her body could give her. Hell, she needed to know the pleasure he could give her.
She didn’t try to push his hand away, and he kept stroking her through the layers of cloth. There was something perversely erotic about seducing a woman wearing his underwear, and she probably didn’t have the faintest idea how turned-on he was. Just as well—she was scared enough already.
“Why?” he asked her again, his voice almost lazy. The cotton was growing damp beneath his stroking fingers, and he could feel the reluctant tremors of reaction sliding across her body.
“I don’t want…” she began, and her voice trailed off as she took a little gulp, a shiver of reaction catching her unaware.
“Don’t want what?” She was fighting him, fighting the feeling he was coaxing from her. The underwear was now less a turn-on than a hindrance, and he wanted her flesh on his fingers, her dampness, her scent.
She let out a startled yelp when he touched her a little harder. He wanted to rip the briefs off her with his teeth he was so aroused, but he knew he could make her come like this, standing up, half dressed and terrified, and he intended to do it.
He could feel the opened folds of her flesh through the cloth, and he knelt down in front of her, put one arm around her hips to hold her, and pushed his fingers against her clitoris. She was trembling, and he felt her hands on his shoulders, digging into the sweater. He thought she was crying, but he didn’t care. He wanted her to cry, needed her to cry with the sheer power of it.
“Don’t fight it, Charlie,” he said in a harsh voice. “Do it, Charlie. Do it for me.”
She probably had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn’t matter. The orgasm took her by surprise, and she let out a low, keening wail that was the most glorious thing he’d ever heard. He leaned forward and put his mouth where his hand had been, up against the thick cloth that was guarding her, pulling her body against him.
He held her that way until her shaking began to lessen. Then he rose and began stripping off his clothes.
“Get on the bed, Charlie,” he said, reaching for his zipper. His cock jutted out, thick and heavy with need. “Or I’ll put you there.”
“Maguire.” Her voice was a raw thread of sound.
“No more games. If you’ve changed your mind you can leave. Otherwise get on the goddamned bed.”
She got on the bed, kicking off her shoes and sliding up on it. He didn’t need to see her face to know that she was watching with fearful eyes, half terrified of what he was going to do to her.
She lay back, crossed her arms over her chest like a martyred virgin, and closed her eyes. His own eyes had grown accustomed to the dark by now, and he could see her quite clearly. The marks of tears on her cheeks. The pale, defenseless skin, the small, perfect breasts. And the incongruous white of the men’s briefs that she still wore.
He felt something crack inside him, though he tried to shove it away. Some kind of ice dam finally breaking.
He came around the side of the bed, sat down beside her and took one of her hands in his. “I’m not going to hurt you, Charlie,” he said in a wry voice.
She didn’t open her eyes. She probably knew he was naked and aroused and she didn’t want to see what she was about to get.
Simple enough. He took her hand, kissed her palm, and placed it on his cock.
Her eyes flew open, and she tried to yank her hand away. He didn’t let her, he simply held her there, till she stopped trying to pull away. Her hand gentled, and her fingers encircled him.
“You’re too big.” Her voice was so quiet he almost didn’t hear her.
He didn’t laugh, though he wanted to, from relief and pure joy.
“I’ll fit,” he said. Much as he regretted it, he leaned over and slid the briefs down her long legs. He’d seen her naked, huddled, frightened in Pompasse’s paintings. The woman lying in his bed, looking up at him with a dizzying combination of need and panic, was far more beautiful, to him at least.
But he needed to wipe that fear from her eyes, from her face, from her soul. And he needed to do it now.
He slid onto the bed beside her, learning her curves, letting his fingers brush the underside of her small, luscious breasts. Her nipples were hard, but he didn’t know if it was from fear or desire. She lay still beneath his touch, that martyred look coming over her once more.
“What have you got against sex, Charlie?” he whispered, brushing his lips against the beaded peak of her breast. ??
?Were you ever hurt? Abused? Raped?” Not the most erotic questions, but he needed to know the answers. If she’d been violated he’d have to be even more careful with her.
“No,” she said in a low voice. There was a sexy catch to it when his tongue touched her nipple. “I just…don’t like it.”
“Why not?” He liked her hipbones. In general, he liked more flesh covering a woman’s hipbones, but this was Charlie and right then she was perfect.
“It was never what I thought it would be,” she said finally. “It was never…magic.”
He slid over her body, pinning her with his strength, catching her face with his hands and putting his forehead against hers, so she couldn’t miss the implacable gleam in his eyes.
“Charlie, love, sex isn’t magic. It’s not making love on a cloud with angels singing and fairies dancing. It’s real, it’s human, it’s wet and sweaty and nasty and the best thing about being alive. And it’s past time you learned that.”
He kissed her mouth. He kissed her eyelids and her cheekbones and her nose, and then he pushed himself inside her.
She was wet, and tight, and her fingers clenched his shoulders as she braced herself, obviously expecting the worst. It didn’t matter—she felt too good to him. It took all his iron self-control to keep from letting go. He pushed slowly, filling her, taking it slow so that she wouldn’t panic. The need to have her was almost primeval, and he had to fight back from the mists in order to slow himself down.
He took a deep, shaky breath when he’d finally sheathed himself completely inside her warmth.
“It fits,” she said in a soft, startled voice.
He let his forehead rest on her shoulder, in both relief and tension. And he slid his hands under her hips, pulled her up tighter against him, and began to move.
She came immediately, a small, shattering orgasm that was over too soon. But he’d waited too long for her, and he wasn’t about to spend it too quickly. Once the breathless peak had passed, he started to move again, slowly at first, setting an almost lazy rhythm to lull her into a state of security. The second climax had drained her of the last vestiges of doubt and shyness, but she still didn’t know what she had in store for her. What he had in store for her.
He was moving a little faster now, and he heard that breathless catch in her voice. She was climbing again, and this time she knew where it would lead. And she wasn’t sure if she was ready to go there again.
But he was. He wanted her with him. He wanted her convulsing around him as he spilled inside her, and he wasn’t going to come without her.
“No,” she said. The first time she had said no all night.
“Hell, yes.” He reached between their bodies and touched her, hard.
She was absolutely silent this time as the climax hit her, clenching around him, as wave after wave of release drained her body.
And he followed her, letting go, holding nothing back.
He couldn’t tell who came down first. She lay in his arms, covered in sweat, panting, heart racing, weeping. He always thought it was strange that some women wept when they climaxed. For the first time he began to understand why.
She wouldn’t want words and he knew it. Well, at least not the words he’d say. She’d want him to tell her he loved her. And he wasn’t going to lie.
Funny, though. He always told women he loved them. Never had a qualm about it if it would get him laid or get him a story.
But he didn’t want to use those easy words with Charlie.
He rolled over on his side, taking her with him, and they fit together perfectly. No awkward arranging of arms and legs and tickling hair. She simply went into his embrace and fell asleep.
Leaving him lying there wondering what the hell he was going to do.
21
Maguire was in a thoroughly lousy mood. Charlie slept like a baby in his arms, completely trusting, a fact that annoyed him. Didn’t she realize what a jerk he was? What a fraud, what a user? How stupid could she be, to go to bed with him and then fall asleep as if she was in the safest place in the world? No wonder her life was so messed up.
No wonder his life was so messed up, as well. He wanted to sleep, too. He wanted to close his eyes, pull her even closer, breathe in the scent of her, and sleep.
But he hated sleeping with women. He liked sex just fine. Loved it, as a matter of fact. But afterward, once the required amount of snuggling and lies were finished with, he wanted his bed to himself. Which was why he seldom brought women to his apartment. Hard to kick a woman out when she was feeling all cozy and postcoital.
But the damnable thing about Charlie was that he didn’t want to kick her out. Didn’t want to leave her. He’d already slept with her for an entire night, and he didn’t even have the excuse of having sex with her. He’d simply wanted to hold her while she was so miserable, give her some kind of comfort. But he’d slept, wrapped around her.
He wasn’t going to make the mistake of doing that again, no matter how much his body cried out for it. He could sleep in a chair—he’d done it before. Or he could simply work all night, catching up on loose ends.
But damn it, he was not going to sleep with Charlie in his arms again. He didn’t dare.
He gently slid out of the bed. She reached for him, making a small, protesting sigh, but she didn’t wake up. He stood by the bed, staring down at her in the dim light. He’d thought she was beautiful before. That was nothing compared to what she looked like now. Well-loved.
Bad term. Well-fucked is what he meant. He’d given her the ride of her life, and she’d sleep for hours now, just to recuperate. And he could start work on rebuilding his own defenses.
He closed the doors to the bedroom so he wouldn’t disturb her. He took a fast, cold shower—she’d taken all the hot water earlier, and then dashed out to his car to get his computer and camera. He hadn’t had a chance to upload the digital pictures, and he was curious to see what sort of shots he’d gotten.
He sat for hours at the laptop, uploading the pictures, backing them up on his portable zip drive. He did it automatically—too many years in war zones had taught him the importance of backing up your material. He slid the zip disk into the desk drawer, then flicked back through the last group of pictures.
There was one photo that was nagging at him, and he wasn’t sure why. It was a shot of Madame Antonella, Lauretta and Tomaso, and it was a picture full of emotion. Molly would have been proud of him.
Lauretta was doing her usual job of pleading with the old lady. Keeping the old lady in line must be a full-time job, Maguire thought. Lauretta must be run ragged trying to care for a full household, as well. There was something about her face, something that bothered him, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.
And that wasn’t all. The old lady fascinated him. She was staring at someone or something, and the look of hatred on her face was so intense it was almost diabolical. There was something there, something that was just eluding him, but the longer he stared at the computer screen the blurrier it became.
He didn’t dare print it up—the noise might awaken Charlie. He’d take the zip disk into the office later in the day, get it blown up before he printed it, and then maybe he could figure out what it was about the photo that was driving him nuts.
He didn’t know whether she had made some sort of sound, or whether it was his sixth sense. But he knew Charlie was awake, and he made the mistake of going to check on her without putting the computer into hibernation.
She was stirring, moving around in the bed, still asleep but restless. And he looked down at her, decided there were some things that were just too hard to fight, and got back in bed with her, pulling her into his arms.
She quieted immediately, and her soft sigh caught on an errant sob that was still stifled deep inside her. She had a lot of crying left to do, he thought, stroking her hair gently. And for a moment he wished to Christ that it didn’t have to be over him.
Maguire snored. Oddly enough, Charlie didn’t mind. He wa
sn’t that loud, and there was something vaguely comforting about the sound. She rose on her elbows to look at him in the murky predawn light. His face had gone beyond a stubble to almost a beard, his eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, and he was sleeping like a baby.
She found herself smiling down at him. She was half tempted to wake him again, and she started to move when her body cried out in massive protest. She bit her lip in annoyance.
She wasn’t ready to stop. She remembered something he’d growled in her ear in the middle of the night, something dark and sexy and exciting, and she wanted to try it. But her body wouldn’t let her.
A bath, she thought. She’d soak in a hot bath for half an hour, then climb back into bed with him. Maybe even climb right on top of him. She was feeling wild and strong and dangerous, and she wanted more.
She listened to his snoring all through her bath, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t even know she’d left his side. When she climbed out of the massive tub she wrapped one of the big towels around her, ready to head back into the bedroom, when she noticed a strange blue light from the living room.
She pushed open the door. The room was still warm from the fire, and the windows overlooking the alleyway let in the filtered half-light of a new day. And then she saw the computer sitting open on the desk.
No Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote. He must have gotten up in the middle of the night to work. He’d left her alone in the bed to get to his computer. He couldn’t wait to get back to his work.
The sense of betrayal was strong enough, and then she saw what was on the screen.
It was a photograph of Antonella, Lauretta and Tomaso. They didn’t know they were being photographed, but Maguire had done a good job. You could practically taste the old lady’s fury emanating from the image on the computer screen.
Tucking the towel more tightly around her, Charlie sat down at the computer. She liked technology, and it didn’t take her long to access the menu of photos, to see the damning ones of her, looking lost.