Body Contact (18 page)

But at the same time, he had never been more bent on giving pleasure, and the briefs he'd prudently kept on stayed on.

With a shaky breath he inched his lower body away from hers. He ached to see her clearly now. He wanted to see all the fine details of her arousal. Her erect nipples. The flush that he knew must be spread across her skin. The hazy erotic look in her eyes.

But he must do with other senses, touch and hearing—and taste.

Taste! Yes, taste, he thought, as he licked delicately at
the crowns and indentations of her ribs, then moved toward the center of her body to flick his tongue into her navel.

He felt her stomach muscles quiver, felt his own mirror the response.

Reaching up, he snagged one of the pillows at the top of the bed, then lifted her hips with his other hand so he could slide it under her.

As he raised her middle off the mattress, she called out his name again, her voice low and throaty and questioning.

“Right here,” he answered as he opened her thighs and moved between them.

She made a small sound that might have been a protest—or an invitation.

He didn't know which. And he didn't care. He knew what he wanted. To kiss her. Feast on her essence.

Gently he parted the folds of her sex with his fingers, feeling his own body quicken as he discovered the extent of her arousal. She was soft and swollen and slick with moisture.

With a tortured sound deep in his throat, he bent to her then, finding her with his mouth, sipping her sweetness with his lips and tongue.

She tasted of heat and honey and feminine desire. And as he began to explore her with his mouth she moved urgently against him.

When he grasped her hips, stilling her with a kind of gentle savagery, she whimpered in protest.

But tonight he wanted the control. Wanted the power and the satisfaction of bringing her to climax.

She belonged to him, he thought in some deep recess of his mind. And he belonged to her in a way that went beyond the mere joining of bodies.

There was no way to express his emotions in words. Instead he used his mouth on her body.

He kissed her, caressed her with long lazy strokes that wrung panting little cries from her. Experimenting with the pace and the pressure and the angle of his mouth, he found out what she liked best.

She pressed against him, her breath coming in gasps. Her body twisting in excitement. And when he felt the first tremors of her climax against his mouth, he felt something fierce and tender clench inside his own chest.

She cried out his name as he pushed her up and over the top. And he drank in her orgasm, awed by the sensations transmitted from the core of her to his lips.

He drew out her satisfaction, waiting until the tremors subsided. Then, half mad with his own need, he tore off his briefs and plunged his aching shaft into her.

His body shuddered with the force of their joining, shuddered with the tumult of his emotions.

Sex had always been a form of pleasure. Physical pleasure. Tonight physical pleasure was only a tiny part of what he felt.

Some dark, hidden core inside him shattered as he began to move. He was seized by emotions he could never articulate. Yet he felt them to the depths of his soul.

He felt her moving under him, her hips wildly bucking. Her arms came around his shoulders, and he realized that she had freed her hands from their bonds.

Then she was moving in concert with him, her breath rushing in and out of her lungs with his.

Her fingers worked their way up and down his back, her nails digging into his flesh.

And then he was shuddering with the force of his release, his head thrown back as ecstasy washed over him.

He felt her body convulse under him, felt her grip him
more tightly, heard her moans of pleasure as she followed where he had led her again.

He collapsed on top of her, too spent to move. When his brain could function again, he tried to shift to his side, but she held him where he was. “Stay inside me,” she murmured.

He wanted that, too, wanted to stay connected with her as long as he could. Shifting his arms around her hips, he rolled to his side, still joined to her.

She nestled her head against his shoulder, and he stroked his lips against the top of her head.

“We should sleep. It's been a long night,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she answered, and for the first time that night, he was glad that they had to be careful of what they said. He didn't want to get into a discussion about what he was feeling, because the last thing in the world he wanted was to share his emotions with Maddy. They were too new. Too raw. And too dangerous.

 

O
LIVER READ
the security reports as he sipped his coffee with cream and ate his perfectly-prepared eggs Benedict. Too bad he couldn't have reinstalled camera equipment in Agapanthus Villa. But if Jack Craig had found it, the man would have considered it an open act of hostility. And he wasn't ready to confront Jack Craig yet. Not without more information. Which he expected to arrive from the States soon.

Craig had been an aggravation and a challenge.

Still, it was amusing to spar with him. Because there was no way he could win. Not on Orchid Island. Where Oliver Reynard controlled every variable.

While Jack and Maddy had been at the evening's reception, his electronics experts had made sure all the audio bugs in the place were in perfect working order.

Too bad they hadn't picked up anything besides a few gasped sentences and the sounds of wild, enthusiastic lovemaking. Including what sounded like some pretty rough sex in the middle of the night.

Still, the information was useful. It meant that they'd stayed put after they'd retired for the night.

From the sound of things, Jack Craig must be a sexual athlete. But he had his inhibitions. He really did like his privacy. During the first part of their private party, he'd remained silent, and Maddy had done all the talking.

The woman was certainly hot, and he knew how to make her even hotter. Thinking about his plans for later in the day, Oliver felt a surge of carnal anticipation flow through his veins.

 

M
ADDY WOKE SLOWLY
, dreamily as she remembered how Jack had made love to her the night before. He had still been inside her when she'd fallen asleep, exhausted by the night's activities—all of them.

Rolling to her side, she reached to clasp him in her arms the way she had in the darkness. But he was gone, and when she smoothed her hand over the sheets, she found them cool.

So he'd been up for a while. And he hadn't bothered to wake her. Or kiss her. Or anything else.

Unaccountably, a deep throbbing sense of loss settled over her. She rolled to her back, staring at the ceiling, feeling tears gather at the backs of her eyes.

It was worse than after the last time he'd made love to her. Then she'd almost expected him to leave her in the morning. This was different because she'd thought something important had changed between them.

She knew the empty ache inside herself was irrational. But she couldn't shut it off.

Don't do this to yourself,
she ordered sternly.
You knew what you were getting into when you begged to come
along on this assignment. Nothing's changed. So don't invest too much in what happened last night when Jack made love to you. It didn't mean the same thing to him as it did to you. Probably he had a bad time out there in the jungle, and he was letting off some steam.

But it hadn't felt like that. It had felt like a man showing a woman how much he cared.

She clenched and unclenched the hands that lay at her sides, but she couldn't stop the memories from flooding back. Jack had used her body like a painter bent on bringing a masterpiece to life. His tongue and lips had been his creative tool. Until he'd finally allowed himself to let that other full, rigid tool plunge into her.

When she'd freed her hands from their bonds, it was because she'd been overwhelmed by the need to touch him, hold him. Clasp him to her breast and show him what she was feeling—because talk had been forbidden, and there was no way to tell him he had transported her to paradise.

She ached to tell him that now. Yet he'd taken himself from their bed before she'd even awakened.

She pressed her palms against the outsides of her thighs, as though holding her own body could hold back the pain in her heart.

But as she lay there caught by her own misery, shame washed over her. What was wrong with her? She was doing it again—focusing on Jack when making love with him was beside the point.

He'd come here to help her find Dawn. They had a job to do, and the sooner they could free Stan Winston's daughter and get the heck off the island, the better for all of them.

If they got back to New York—no, when they got back to New York—they'd have time to sort out their personal
relationship. And until then, she'd better keep her focus where it belonged.

The mental dressing-down was exactly what she needed. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood. She was naked, the way Jack had left her.

Too damn bad if there were cameras here.

Defiantly, she lifted one hand, holding up her middle finger in a rude salute. Then she got out underwear and marched into the bathroom, carefully closing the door behind herself.

A hot shower helped put her in a better frame of mind. While she was still under the warm spray, she grabbed Jack's razor and shaved her legs. Then, wrapped in a large fluffy towel, she returned to the bedroom and selected a pair of lemon-yellow shorts and a matching knit shirt with tiny butterflies embroidered over the front. Then she slipped her feet into comfortable but stylish sandals. By the time she strolled into the living room, she had control of her emotions and control of her features.

Jack was seated at the table, reading that morning's
New York Times,
which Reynard had doubtless imported at great expense from the States.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, folding the paper and setting it aside as he gave her what looked like a satisfied masculine smile.

She wanted to wipe it off his face. Then she checked herself. Whatever had happened between them in the night, they were back to playing their parts this morning. The man who had spent so much of the night pleasuring his lady surely had a right to that smug look.

She took a deep breath, then forced herself to purr, “I slept very well after all that lovemaking.”

Her gaze caught and held his for a long moment. Then he looked down into his coffee cup.

So much for meaningful eye contact, she thought, as
she crossed to the serving cart and poured herself some of the strong brew, then added half-and-half.

“So what's on the agenda today?” she asked.

“One of the guys asked me to play golf.”

“Are you going?”

He gave her a direct look. “Of course. Why don't you relax around here? Then we'll get back together at lunch.”

Maddy wanted to scream. She didn't want Jack going off. She wanted him with her—wanted him to tell her what had happened last night while he'd been outside. But Jack Craig's mistress—or his fiancée—or whatever she was wouldn't raise a protest.

He stood, crossed the rug and gave her a peck on the cheek. “You be a good girl while I'm gone.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Stay here so you don't get that pretty skin sunburned.”

Stay inside? Was that a warning?

As soon as he left, it was difficult not to start pacing the room. But she was pretty sure Maddy Griffin would be perfectly at ease doing nothing much. So she went through the video library next to the television set, popped in a soap opera tape, and treated herself to two boring hours.

By the time Jack came back, she felt as if half of her brain had rotted away.

He regaled her with stories of his exploits on the golf course while they ate the lunch that had been delivered on another rolling cart.

Then he stood and stretched.

“What do you think about a walk on the beach?”

“Cool.”

The enthusiastic exclamation brought a sardonic lift to his lips.

She ignored him and thought about the hidden context of the conversation—such as it was.

The beach, where the waves would be pounding the shore. They'd headed there before to talk. But a guard had stopped them. Maybe this time they'd have better luck.

Jack reached for her hand as they stepped onto the path. His fingers felt cold, and she slid him a questioning look. But he said nothing as they passed one of the damn gardeners who seemed to be all over the place.

Gardeners. Guards. There was probably no difference, except that the guards' weapons were showing. Or maybe the gardeners only carried communications equipment—to summon men with guns.

No one stopped them as they topped the rise that led down to the ocean. She kept hold of Jack's hand as they negotiated the sandy slope, then stood looking out at the turquoise water—watching the foam-tipped waves roll in and crash against the sand, feeling the wind ripple against her skin.

Jack stood still as a statue, looking out to sea.

“You wanted to talk?” she finally said.

“Yeah.”

Lord, there were so many things bubbling inside her. She wanted to ask him what his passionate lovemaking last night had meant. But their personal relationship was way down the priority list. What she needed was to find out about Dawn.

When he said no more, she asked, “Was Dawn in the tower?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God.”

“That woman you told me about—Juanita—showed up to bring her dinner. It looks like they're friends. I could hear them talking, and Juanita told her that you're here.”

“She's on our side?” Maddy breathed.

“She offered to sleep with one of the guards, when he got suspicious.”

“Do you have a timetable for getting Dawn out of here?”