“I take it you’re not going to be content just checking out the ground floor, nosy.”
“Oh, hush. So then what happened?” she demanded, as she mounted the stairs, her palm on the hand-carved banister.
“Then, nothing. I had to learn. A lot. My father gave me an initial stake in garnets…and then watched me make a fool of myself.” He didn’t add that the challenge of making a fortune had affirmed his will to survive just when he’d decided he’d rather be dead than exist as a semi-invalid. His father had simply dropped the challenge in his lap-here was something he could do, something that took more mental than physical prowess, something he could master with endless study and a telephone and the right kind of teachers. And time.
“What are you leaving out, Mitch?” Kay asked softly. She’d turned in the upstairs hallway, mystified by the intensely brooding look on Mitch’s face.
As an answer, he moved toward her, tilted her chin up with his hand and lowered his soft, cool lips to hers. His eyes met hers only for a moment, long enough for Kay to remember that this was a man who could only be pushed so far.
And then he was walking past her, flicking on light switches so she could view the two bedrooms and adjoining baths, none of which interested her any longer. The house told her only so much about him; none of it explained the long, smooth scar on his chest or that streak of white in his dark hair.
“Mitch…”
“As you must have figured out, I had to have someplace to crash beyond the bare floors downstairs. This has served well enough.” Mitch turned with a wry smile as they entered his bedroom. “Though I have to admit, one’s bedroom isn’t the standard place to entertain visitors.”
The room looked like an excellent place to entertain visitors, Kay thought with a rare jealous streak. A couch and easy chair sat in their own private alcove; a luxuriously huge bed in another. The motif was Chinese, austere prints with a perfection of line, a richly lacquered chest, a pair of oriental carpets that felt like sponge beneath her feet. Mitch flipped on two lamps, and their muted glow shone softly on the richness of comfort and privacy he so clearly valued. A frantic thought occurred to her, and she raised startled eyes to his.
“Mitch-”
“You like the house?”
“I love the house. Listen. About that fig tree you gave me…?”
“I knew you’d love it, you know.” His forefinger swept back a strand of hair that had curled around her cheek. In contrast to that most tender gesture, every muscle in his body was totally rigid. He knew he shouldn’t have brought her here. She’d used some kind of perfume that had continually drifted toward him all evening. He’d watched her laughing with Hemerling; he’d watched the way she cupped a fist under her chin when she was listening intently; he’d watched her eyes come alive with humor and the way she tossed her head when she was irritated. And he’d so carefully not touched her.
“I thought it was glass,” she said hesitantly. “Mitch, it never occurred to me…”
The scent of her was such a drug. The more he tried to shake it, the stronger his addiction grew. He bent down, nuzzling his cheek into her hair, pressing his lips just behind the small shell of her ear.
“Are you listening to me?” Kay asked wryly. “Mitch…”
“I haven’t been this hungry for neck since I can remember,” he murmured.
Her stiffness dissolved in instant laughter. She swung her arms around his neck but leaned deliberately back from his marauding lips, trying to fix him with a quelling glance. “I want to talk about fig trees. Five-inch-high fig trees.”
“Okay,” he agreed. He sank down on the couch, taking her with him, swinging her legs over his thighs, leaning her back against the couch cushions. She had a terrible frown on her forehead; he leaned over her to kiss it away. Then he had a terrible frown. With that crazy knot she’d put in her hair, there had to be a dozen hairpins sticking into her.
“You’re not listening. Mitch, what do you think you’re doing?” She shoved away his busy hand, the one so full of hairpins. “It isn’t…valuable?”
“The fig tree?” He found the last pin, dropped them all next to the couch and combed his fingers through her hair until the strands lay smooth and silky around her face. Finally, after far too many hours, she was Kay again. Like a soft, insistent whisper, his mouth brushed hers.
And a long, low drum roll sounded at the back of his head, like a warning. He tried to banish it. When you sign up for the big leagues, you’re expected to play ball. There was nothing strictly wrong with that; he definitely wanted to play ball. And he knew damn well he was overly worried about high standards of performance, but if he got enough practice in, there was just a slim chance she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a seasoned player and the greenest rookie.
Halfheartedly she tried to escape from his kisses. “Mitch. I can’t possibly accept something with that kind of valu-”
His lips stilled her protest. His palm slipped inside her black top, finding the satin flesh over her ribs; he savored her quick intake of breath. She actually wanted him to touch her. She actually loved his gentle kneading on her breast; he could feel the soft orb tremble and then swell in his hand, its tip hardening.
He moved slowly, searching for the least sign that she wanted him to stop. He didn’t receive any signs. She murmured approvingly when his hand slipped behind her to find the catch of her bra.
A year later, he figured out it was the front-hooked kind. Damn it. At fifteen, the girls he’d known had all worn back hooks.
He managed, and without once interrupting the exchange of tongues going on in a completely different world. She gave pleasure so naturally, so sweetly. Her fingers had already unbuttoned his shirt, were splaying in the curling hair on his chest, climbing near his heart. His heartbeat was deliriously erratic. Once, that would have instantly aroused alarm bells; now, he only worried that she had it all wrong.
He didn’t want to take but to give. To offer as much pleasure as Kay would let him give. If the desire he felt was a torment of frustration, there was still the greater desire simply to love her for the woman she was. His hands moved slowly, testing, as his mouth started exploring the soft skin of her neck.
One way or another, he got her top off and flung it on the floor. He knew he should have hung it up or…whatever a man usually did when he was removing a woman’s clothes.
Except that her skin was so pliant in his hands… Her faint whimper of pleasure caused his thighs to tighten unbearably, his lips to turn boldly possessive. “I love your pleasure sounds,” he murmured. “More, sweetheart. More, Kay…”
Her spine arched for the touch of his hand on her breast, and in response his lips sealed, hard, on hers. When her legs curled up, he couldn’t help sweeping a palm up and down the length of her stockinged calf and thigh. His fingers strayed to the top of her stocking and discovered a lace-edged garter. A fierce, primal craving flooded his bloodstream. There was something irreversibly exciting about garters and stockings. At least about Kay in garters and stockings. And the thought of taking them off her…hell.
Trying to ignore the runaway images in his head, he concentrated on listening to those soft, abandoned murmurs of hers, on touching her in a way she clearly wanted.
She very clearly liked the soft lap of his tongue in the hollow of her throat. She liked the caress of his hand on her thigh; her breath caught at the slightest touch of her breasts…but she didn’t breathe at all when he rubbed her nipple with his thumb. Her whole body turned warm for him; her eyes turned dark, sleepy, intense with emotion.
And the only problem with wanting to please her was that he couldn’t take much more. Her hand dropped in his lap-he was certain she didn’t mean that the way it felt, but unfortunately there was hell to pay. A certain portion of his body was so swollen he was in pain.