Body Contact (2 page)

She was almost naked, but he was still fully clothed in a crisp cotton dress shirt, a rep tie, beautifully tailored gray trousers, polished dark shoes. Only the navy blazer he'd worn earlier was missing.

“Come here,” he ordered.

The ten feet of space between them had been a protective barrier. But she willed her legs to move as she took a tentative step toward him. Fixing her gaze on his broad chest, she crossed the room and came to stand a foot from him.

She had been able to stop herself from speaking earlier. Now words of protest tumbled from her lips. “This is wrong. We shouldn't be doing this. We don't have to go any further.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, you would be correct.”

“We don't know each other.”

“We've worked together off and on for over two years.”

“But there's so much about you that I don't know….”

“You can study a dossier on me tonight.”

“I don't want a dossier. I want us to talk. I want this to be normal.”

She knew the moment the words were out of her mouth that they gave away her fear, her uncertainty.

“Stop delaying the inevitable. I'm not going to take the chance of bringing you to Orchid Island without having…had you.”

“Why not?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Because our lives depend on how convincing we are. Our relationship can't come across as a journey of exploration. I'm going there to offer Reynard a drug trafficking deal he can't refuse. I pulled strings and spent a lot of Winston money getting an invitation to the house party he's giving in two days. He'll be watching us carefully, making sure I'm what I'm supposed to be: a filthy-rich crook who's brought his honey along. He and his pack of security men have to think that you and I have been lovers for months.”

“But we could have just…become intimate. I mean, why do we have to make it look like we've been together for any length of time?”

“Our relationship has to be solid in every way—emotionally, sexually. You've got to seem important to me. Reynard has a reputation for hitting on women guests. He's also got a reputation for being…rough when he gets them in his bedroom.”

She lifted her chin. “I can take care of myself with a man like that.”

“But then you wouldn't be playing the role of my sweet little cookie. Which would mean you'd get us both killed. Maddy, I mean it. The penalty for messing up is death.”

The words and the sharp tone of his voice made her chest go tight.

He gave her an appraising look. “If I've made the job sound too risky, you're still free to back out. I can find a replacement—a female operative who has the sexual experience to handle the assignment.”

“No. I can do it,” she answered automatically.

“Then let's get on with the audition. Undress me.”

She squeezed her eyes closed. For a moment the temptation to call the whole thing off was almost overwhelming. Then she reminded herself that this was her mess. She was the one who had let Dawn Winston slip away. If there was one controlling factor in this whole episode, that was it.

“I don't want your eyes closed like a fifteenth-century virgin bride waiting for her husband to ravish her. I want you looking at me like you're enjoying what you're doing. Like you want to please me.”

Her lids snapped open. She focused on his crisp white shirt, then the vertical line of his tie. Willing her hands to steadiness, she reached to the knot between the points of his collar, the slick fabric slipping under her fingers as she struggled to loosen it.

She undid the tie, leaving it dangling around his neck as she turned to the shirt buttons, her fingers as clumsy as they had been with her blouse. She could feel his warm skin through the fabric. Then she pushed the shirt open, her fingers skimming the thatch of dark hair that covered his chest. He didn't move, but she heard him draw in a sharp breath. For the first time she felt a glimmer of hope—hope that this performance wasn't as cold and calculating as he made it seem.

Feeling more bold, she continued her exploration. She had wondered about his chest. She'd known it would be broad, had wanted it spread with crisp hair. Now she win
nowed her fingers through that thatch, pressing her fingertips to his warm skin. She could feel his heart beating. Fast. Fast and deep.

And that accelerated heartbeat added to her sense of confidence. He might have been standing here giving her orders, taunting her. But he wasn't indifferent to her. No, somewhere along the line he had become involved in this scene on a very personal level.

Her fingers found his flat nipples, circling them, and he made a sharp sound in his throat, a sound that emboldened her. She fought to keep a smile off her face as she undid the buttons at his cuffs, then pushed the shirt off his shoulders, pulled each arm through its sleeve.

“Do you want me to fold your shirt and tie neatly and put them with my clothing?” she asked silkily.

“Just get to the main event,” he answered in a rough voice. “Take off the rest of my clothing so I can feel the length of your naked body pressed to mine.”

Her nerves jumped again. But she wasn't going to stop now. Didn't want to stop. Couldn't stop.

Reaching toward his waist, she undid his belt buckle, then the clasp at the top of his slacks. Before she worked the zipper, she slid her hand down his fly, feeling how hard he was through the barrier of his slacks.

Again he reacted with a sound of pleasure that it seemed he was helpless to hold back.

She wanted to say his name, wanted to tell him that she knew this performance had gone beyond the boundaries of cold necessity.

But she kept the words locked in her throat.

She couldn't tell him what she felt. Or what she hoped for. But as she rocked her hand against his erection, she felt heat gather in her belly.

He made a sound of protest when she moved her hand away, but he had forgotten about giving her directions as
she found the zipper tab, pulled it down. Skimming her hands down his flanks, she slipped his slacks and his briefs off together.

She had him naked in seconds, standing before her, his body lean and fit, his penis hard and thick and jutting toward her. He was large, potent, male.

He swore under his breath, gathered her to him, his head dipping so his mouth could capture hers. She opened for him, feeling his lips, his tongue, his teeth even as his hands went to the catch of her bra and snapped it open. He swept the garment off her, then caught her breasts in his hands, kneading, stroking, circling her nipples, making them throb with pleasure.

She had imagined this. Dreamed of it. The reality was far more heady than any fantasy. Her sex felt wet and swollen. Her brain felt ready to explode.

When he dragged her panties down, she kicked them away. He stared at her, his eyes traveling over her body, from the tight points of her nipples to the blond triangle of hair at the apex of her legs.

She was thankful then for the long hours she'd spent in the gym. Long hours that had tightened her muscles, flattened her stomach, brought her to the peak of physical conditioning.

“God, you're magnificent,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl. “I knew your body would be like this. Feminine curves, with underlying strength. But I always wondered if you were a natural blond,” he said thickly.

“You thought about making love with me?”

“Men think about making love with women,” he said dismissively. “It's a natural reaction.”

He was deliberately telling her not to make more of his words than their face value, when she wanted him to tell her his sexual fantasies about her had been as vivid as
hers about him. But he didn't give her the chance to speak. His hand was between her legs, testing her, stroking her with sure, knowing fingers—bringing her a jolt of pleasure that made her cry out.

She tried to read the look in his eyes. Pure male satisfaction? Or something more personal. Before she could decide, he backed her toward the bed, came down on top of her. Raising up on his elbows, he stared down into her eyes, and she would have sworn the look that passed between them was the look of long separated lovers finally together in a blazing moment of reunion.

Then he plunged into her, going deep, stretching her to the limit of her capacity.

She took him, took all of him, her hips rising even as his pressed forward.

It was as if they had done this a hundred times, a thousand, moving to a remembered rhythm as his penis sank into her, then withdrew, each long stroke carrying her upward on a rising wave of pleasure.

There was no thought of closing her eyes now. She kept them focused on his face, on the rigid planes, the taut lines. Raising her hand, she stroked the dark stubble on his cheek, caressing him, tracing the upper curve of his lips.

He opened his mouth, took her finger between his lips, sucked it, then worried it between his even white teeth, while his hips moved in a rhythm that was driving her to the point of no return.

She felt him holding himself back, saw him watching her face, attending to the cues she gave him, listening to the sounds she made as his body plunged above her, in her.

And only when a hot, pulsing climax made her cry out, did he take his own satisfaction.

 

A
FTERWARDS
J
ACK DIDN'T STAY
with her. He didn't hold her and kiss her because that would give too much away.

Instead, he climbed out of the bed, scooped his clothing off the floor, and headed for the nearest shower.

But he couldn't stop himself from turning and gazing at her lying on the bed. She was looking stunned and sated and besotted.

He knew he had to wipe that expression off her face, so he said, “That was an excellent performance, but there's still plenty of work to do before our flight to Orchid Island. You can use the shower in the bathroom off the lounge. Then get dressed so we can start going over research materials.”

The devastated look that flashed across her features almost sent him climbing back into bed with her—to gather her close, to stroke his lips against her silky blond hair the way he'd wanted to do all along.

Instead, his fingers closed around the pair of slacks in his hands. “I've arranged to have dinner sent up. You'd better hurry and get dressed. You don't want to run into the waiter in your birthday suit.”

Before he could say anything that would hurt her more deeply, he turned and bolted into the bathroom. Closing the door behind him, he stood with his back pressed against the hard wood panel, breathing hard, absorbing the enormity of what he'd just done. Then he tossed his clothing onto the dressing table and stalked to the shower.

Moments later, he was standing under the hot spray trying to wash away the wonderful smell of her skin that still clung to him.

From the first moment he'd seen her two years ago, he'd wanted her, wanted her with a passion that bordered on madness.

But he had never let her know that he felt anything beyond admiration for the way she did her job.

Her work was her life. That was the way her father, Spike Guthrie, had raised her. It had been an entirely satisfying life for her, until five days ago, when that stupid idiot, Dawn Winston, had drugged her and bolted from the safety of her father's home.

As soon as Maddy had called him in and explained what had happened, he'd told her that Dawn's disappearance wasn't her fault. The girl had planned everything with the utmost care. She'd counted on Maddy's friendship, then betrayed her trust. But the words had rolled right off her like spring rain off a rubber slicker. Seeing the panic and the misery on her face, he'd felt duty bound to give her a chance to set things right.

Then he'd started having second thoughts. He'd warned her of the dangers. But he wasn't sure she'd listened hard enough to that part. So just now, he'd tried to make the job so distasteful that she'd back out.

Instead she'd done every damned thing he'd asked. Including have sex with him.

No, he corrected himself. It might have started out as having sex. It had ended up as making love, because he had been helpless to do it any other way.

God, he had just fulfilled his most compelling private daydream—making love to Maddy Guthrie. And she'd been as warm and passionate and giving as he'd always hoped she'd be.

But his old friend, Spike Guthrie, wouldn't have seen it in those terms. Spike Guthrie would be coming after him now with a machete—if the tough-as-nails security chief had still been alive.

No, Spike would have hated him for this. And Maddy would hate him, too. Unless he kept this relationship where it had to be kept. Strictly impersonal. Because if he knew anything about Maddy Guthrie, she was her father's daughter. Tough on the outside. Vulnerable on the
inside. Dedicated to her job at Winston Industries and to upholding the tradition her father had established.

Still, his mind started spinning a very appealing scenario. Maybe after this was over, he'd be free to have her where he wanted her, in his bed—on a regular basis.

He cut off
that
line of thinking before it could even get started. Mentally, he'd been down that road before. Sleeping with a colleague was unacceptable.

Shutting off the water, Jack stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel, already arranging his features into the set lines he knew he had to present to Maddy when he saw her next.

T
HE IDEA OF PUTTING ON
the skirt and blouse that she'd taken off so provocatively a little while ago made Maddy's stomach knot, so she was thankful that the outfits Jack had picked for Orchid Island had already been sent up to the Winston guest suite.

Before getting into the shower, she picked something that was as buttoned up as she could find—a pair of beige slacks and an ivory silk blouse. She completed the outfit with low heels, then pulled back her hair and secured it at the neck with a mother-of-pearl clip.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the bathroom, but Jack was nowhere in sight. Fifteen minutes later, she was still waiting for him as she paced nervously across the room, her footsteps muffled by the rich Oriental carpet.

Surely it wasn't taking him this long to dress. So where was he? Was he trying to postpone their meeting as long as possible?

They'd made love for the first time less than an hour ago. Under circumstances that had started off like a male power trip.

Then…

Then everything had suddenly changed from stark and sterile to warm and wonderful. Until the end—that is. After her mind-blowing climax—when Jack had climbed out of bed and walked away from her as if the whole thing had really been just a training exercise.

The sound of the door opening made her jump. She wanted to clench her hands at her sides. Instead she moistened her lips, then turned.

Jack was standing at the other end of the room, his face a study in composure as he looked her up and down.

“I see you found the clothing I had sent over from Saks.”

“Yes.”

“That's the most conservative outfit in the lot,” he commented, instantly picking up on the significance of her choice.

“It's comfortable,” she answered mildly, noting that he looked entirely comfortable himself in the tailored slacks and white shirt he'd been wearing earlier.

Crisply, he said, “I'm sorry I've kept you waiting. I was gathering up the files we need. And ordering dinner. I hope steak, baked potato and salad are all right.”

“Fine,” she answered. Technically, as security chief, she should have been the one to do the ordering, although she'd completely forgotten about dinner. But it seemed Jack Connors had made himself perfectly at home in her domain. She flicked a glance at his face, then looked quickly away—thinking that he was probably an excellent poker player. She couldn't even catch a hint of what was behind those green eyes of his.

All she knew was that a good bout of sex left him hungry—judging by the meal he'd just described.

He crossed to the table and set down several folders.

“I've got a CIA dossier on Reynard. A map of the island. Background on some of his visitors. And a dossier on myself. You need to memorize that—so you can rattle off facts like when I graduated from Georgia Tech. We'll keep the facts as close to the truth as possible—to make it easier for us both to remember what our stories are supposed to be.”

“Georgia Tech. That's where you went to school?”

“Yeah. On a scholarship. But you can read up on that after you go home tonight. And I need similar information on you. I can start with your personnel file, but I'll probably need more details.”

“Like whether I get menstrual cramps?” she snapped.

“Yeah, like that. Do you?”

She wished she hadn't come back with the snappy retort. “Occasionally,” she muttered.

“Since you brought up the subject, what about P.M.S.? Do your breasts get tender? Are they more sensitive then?”

She shot him a warning look. “That's none of your business.”

“I beg to differ. Everything about you is my business. You've been my mistress for over a year. I need to know if you're bitchy before your period. Or if it juices you up—makes you more eager for sex.”

“Both,” she snapped.

“You seem tense,” he observed dryly. “Would a glass of wine help relax you?”

She was tempted to walk over to the bar, pour herself a shot of bourbon and drink it neat. Hard liquor wasn't usually her style, but it seemed appropriate for the occasion. Still, she didn't let the temptation override her better judgment. She needed her wits about her tonight, so she managed a tight nod. “White wine would be fine.”

“I believe there's a chilled bottle of Chardonnay in the refrigerator,” he said, bringing it out. “The Jekel winery. 1996. A good year.” Taking a corkscrew from the drawer, he began to expertly open the bottle.

She watched him for a moment before observing, “Perhaps I'd feel more comfortable if we were trading intimate information rather than having you do all the prying.”
She stopped, casting around in her mind for the equivalent of the nosy questions he'd asked her. Sexual questions.

Prying wasn't usually her style. But she studied one of his broad shoulders as she asked, “Where did you have your first girl? In the back seat of a car? And oh yeah, how old were you?”

She had the momentary satisfaction of seeing the hand with the corkscrew falter. But that was the only sign that his composure had slipped. “That isn't necessarily information that I'd share with my mistress, unless I'm the kind of man who likes to brag about my sexual conquests.”

“Are you?”

He pulled the cork from the bottle, took two long-stemmed glasses from the cabinet and began to pour the wine. “The persona I'm creating for Oliver Reynard probably would,” he allowed as he handed her a glass, then picked up his own and took a small swallow before answering. “It was the summer I was fifteen. My father had an old army buddy, Ed Wyatt, whose family we were friendly with. Their daughter, Bethany, was seventeen, and I was attracted to her. But since she was two years older, I didn't think I had a chance. We were staying at the Wyatts' house for a long weekend, and the two sets of parents went out for the evening. I was in the den, feeling nervous about being alone with Bethany. So I was standing in front of the television turning the channels, trying to find some show that would take my mind off her. She came up behind me, reached around my waist, and put her hand on my cock.”

He took another sip of wine, his eyes locked on Maddy's face. Her mouth was dry, but she didn't reach for her glass because, for the moment, she had lost the ability to move.

“I got instantly hard. I thought I was going to embar
rass myself right there and then, but she knew what she was doing. She was obviously experienced, and she got both of us out of our clothes—and me into her in record time.”

His eyes had taken on a faraway look. “I thought that first time was incredible. The second time she slowed things down a little—started showing me how to touch a woman and kiss her for maximum pleasure. The third time…” He shrugged. “That was when she gave me a lesson in oral sex.”

Maddy couldn't help it. She felt dampness gather between her legs. She should be shocked, but it wasn't difficult to imagine the teenage Bethany seducing fifteen-year-old Jack. He was a stunningly masculine man. The girl must have taken his untapped sensuality as a challenge. And a gift—that her parents had unwittingly given her. She could imagine the fevered scene—the sexual energy of the teenage couple. And then there was the element of secrets shared. Naughty secrets. The teenagers pulling something over on their parents.

As if his thinking was paralleling hers, he said, “Our folks never suspected. Not even when I snuck down the hall the next night and into her bed.” He laughed. “We had a few more mind-blowing visits back and forth that summer. Then she went away to college the next year and came home with a sophomore guy in tow. I was still in high school, and she wouldn't give me the time of day. That was a real blow to my ego. Especially since I knew exactly what she and the guy were doing in her bedroom at night.”

With a jerky motion, Maddy picked up her glass and took a gulp.

“What about you?” Jack asked, his voice turning low and silky, his gaze probing her own secrets.

“What about what?”

“
Your
first time.”

Unwanted memories flooded her. Her first time. She'd been sixteen. A bad age for making sexual decisions. She'd been dating Ben Hemsley and afraid that he was going to lose interest in her. He was a rich kid whose parents were friends with the Winston family. And she was the daughter of the hired help.

But he'd taken up with her, and she liked hanging around with him. Liked pretending that she fit in with his fast-lane lifestyle. So when he'd started putting pressure on her to go all the way, she'd agreed to let him do it to her. They'd met in the boathouse at his father's estate. And it had been a painful, thoroughly unromantic experience. Too fast. Too frightening. Too humiliating—at least for her. Ben had wallowed in the afterglow of his conquest. She'd felt cheap and used. And she'd vowed that no man would take advantage of her like that again. That degrading experience was one of the reasons why she was careful about her sexual partners, one of the reasons why she never let a man push her into anything she wasn't ready for.

Until tonight. Until Jack.

Well, that wasn't fair, she corrected herself. She might have needed a little push. But she'd certainly been ready.

She took another swallow of the wine, trying to blot out the long ago scene. It was something she seldom thought about. But Jack had brought it back.

And she couldn't exactly blame him, she silently admitted. She was the one who'd pushed him into his own revelation. And he was simply turning the tables.

He was still waiting for her to say something. Her hand clenched around the stem of the glass as she answered his question. “I don't think your mistress is willing to share that particular experience with you.”

He was watching her with an unnerving intensity, and she wished she were more adept at hiding her emotions.

Unable to cope with his probing gaze, she poured herself more wine and downed half the contents of the glass.

“Careful,” Jack said mildly. “You want to keep a clear head.”

“For what?”

“Studying the material I brought. Perhaps we should start with some visual aids.” He turned away from her, and she breathed out a little sigh, glad that he was giving her a moment of privacy.

Crossing to the table, he shuffled through the folders he'd brought and withdrew several glossy photographs which he handed to her.

They all showed the same man. Some were in color, some in black-and-white. Most had obviously been shot with a telephoto lens.

“Reynard, I take it,” Maddy said.

“Yes.”

She studied the crime lord. He was slim with neatly cut hair, lean cheeks and narrow lips. There was nothing remarkable about him—if you discounted the piercing eyes. They seemed to be staring at her, probing her deepest thought, though she was only looking at photographs.

He'd be a formidable opponent. She knew that much. Having his own island would make him arrogant—and ruthless.

Striving for detachment, she sorted through the pictures. Some had probably been taken twenty years ago and showed a man who looked like he was in his late twenties or early thirties. The more recent ones depicted someone in his early fifties—still vigorous and very sure of himself.

“Not many men can afford a private island with all the trimmings,” she said. “How did he manage it?”

“He inherited wealth. His father, Bruce Reynard, saw the potential of electrical appliances when the industry was in its infancy. He started manufacturing stuff like vacuum cleaners, toasters, electric irons, radios. Things that made life easier and more pleasant for people who could afford them.

“He exploited the new rush toward consumerism. Oliver's vision of humanity was—is—darker. He saw the potential for corruption. Gambling. Drugs. Prostitution. His stock in trade is human frailty. And he made it pay off big—bigger than the happy little world of household conveniences.

“The FBI was after him—so he solved his problems by going offshore, where they can't touch him.”

“But why would he go after Stan Winston's daughter? I mean, how does he even know Stan?”

“He and Winston go way back. Their fathers were business rivals. And it seems that Winston cut him out of some lucrative manufacturing deals when he was looking for legitimate ways to launder his dirty money. It's too bad Dawn got caught in the middle.”

Maddy nodded. As she set the photographs down, Jack unfolded a large sheet of paper which he spread out for their inspection. It was a full-color aerial view of Orchid Island—taken either from a low-flying plane or a spy satellite.

She'd used similar photos to study the security of various Winston facilities, but the detail never ceased to amaze her. Looking at the legend, she saw the island was seven miles long and two miles wide. She could see surf foaming along the white sand that gave way at intervals to rocky shoreline. Near the eastern end of the irregular rectangle, a cone-shaped mountain rose from a dense swath of greenery.

Development was at the western end, which had been
cleared of its natural jungle covering and landscaped with lush tropical vegetation. Commanding a view of the widest beach was a sprawling building that looked like it took up several acres. Farther inland, scores of modest bungalows were lined along narrow roads.

Jack leaned over Maddy, his arm brushing hers, stirring a current of awareness through her as he began to point out the features of the island.

She slid him a sidewise glance. He looked cool and unruffled, while she was unable to control her reaction to him.

It took several seconds before she tuned back in to what he was saying as he pointed to a long, narrow building.

“This is the customs area. It's manned by extra guards, and they're likely to search our luggage. Reynard will have us taken into custody if he finds anything on his forbidden list.”