Body Contact (5 page)

His voice was as low and silky as his touch. “Reynard's island is my kind of place. We're going to have a great time. A little pleasure. A little business.”

She swallowed, nodded, thinking that it wasn't so difficult to imitate the other women. Most of them seemed as off-balance as she.

Covertly, she studied them. They were all beautiful. Some were fashion-model slender. Others were built more like Playboy centerfolds—probably courtesy of breast implants and liposuction, she told herself.

But they seemed to have little choice about their behavior. She was sure they all knew that they either played along with these guys, or they could be replaced.

Her own choices were also limited. At least for now.
Because everything that happened over the next few days was governed by the one big decision she'd made.

She was going to Orchid Island to rescue Dawn Winston. No matter what. Up till now, she'd let her determination carry her along. Determination—and frantic work. Because every minute of the past few days had been filled with studying dossiers, plotting strategy, getting as comfortable as she could with her wardrobe, learning how to put on the makeup she was wearing, and ensuring that the security at Winston Industries ran smoothly while she was away.

All at once, the frantic activity had come to a halt, and she was sitting here in this luxury airport lounge playing the role she'd thought she was prepared for. Jack had warned her what it would be like. But she'd thought he was exaggerating to get her to back out. Too bad she hadn't taken him at his word.

“Excited, baby?” he asked, his toes moving higher, walking their way up the curve of her calf.

She licked her dry lips. “As excited as you.”

His green eyes told her he knew she was lying.

She was rescued from his exploring toes by the woman at the check-in counter, her voice coming from a loudspeaker.

“Flight fifty-three-ten to Orchid Island is now ready for boarding. All passengers, have your boarding passes ready for the attendant.”

Jack slipped his foot back into his shoe. The area was suddenly full of activity as people stood, grabbed their carry-on luggage, and moved toward the exit door.

With a mixture of relief and trepidation, Maddy picked up the small, specially designed case that held enough makeup for a Broadway chorus line. That was another reason her face was so overdone. She looked like a woman who never traveled without the contents of a cos
metics counter. But actually there was more than lipstick, foundation and eye shadow in the bag. Hidden in the padded bottom and sides was the transmitter they would need to summon their transportation after they'd located Dawn.

The thought of Dawn sent a sudden pang spearing through her. It had been over a week now since they'd had any information about Stan Winston's daughter, so they had to be prepared for anything.

Jack must have sensed her sudden shiver, because he draped an arm around her shoulder.

“I've told you, honey, flying's safer than walking across the street.”

“I know you're right,” she managed. “I just can't help get a little uptight every time I think about takeoff and landing. Those are the most dangerous times, aren't they?” she asked in a slightly quavery voice.

“Don't worry your pretty head about that. We'll get you a nice glass of wine as soon as we're settled.”

They walked down the jetway and into the midsize plane. Maddy sucked in her breath as the decor registered. The interior looked more like a nightclub than an airplane. The sumptuous seats were upholstered in orange-and-purple fabric and arranged in rows facing each other, with small tables bolted to the floor between the rows.

There was no assigned seating. Couples were free to occupy any part of the cabin they wanted. Several had already made themselves comfortable. As in the waiting room, they were all staking out their own territory—with each twosome a little island unto themselves.

Apparently nobody in this group was the outgoing type. Or they didn't trust each other even to make small talk.

Jack led her toward the back, probably because that gave him the best opportunity to observe the others, she figured as she slid her carry-on under the seat opposite her and settled into a chair like a luxury lounger. There
was even, she discovered, a little footrest that swung out of the superstructure.

As the plane taxied onto the runway, Maddy found herself fighting a surge of panic.

“All right?” Jack murmured, pressing his hand over hers.

She turned her head, raised her gaze to his, seeing determination mingled with regret in his eyes.

So he still didn't think she was the right woman for the job! Well, she would show him what she was made of. Deliberately she relaxed in her seat, pretending she was getting ready for the most delectable experience of her life.

As soon as they had reached their cruising altitude, a couple of flight attendants wearing skimpy little skirts, low-cut blouses and mesh stockings came around to take drink orders.

Maddy asked for white wine.

Jack ordered an island punch, to get himself in the mood for fun, he told her loudly.

She took small sips of her drink, feeling the cool liquid slide down her throat. She was no wine expert, but this stuff tasted like top quality.

Fifteen minutes later, she was more relaxed. So relaxed in fact, that she couldn't stop herself from contemplating a little devilment. If Jack could tease her in the waiting room, she could do the same thing here. Giving him a sly smile, she slipped her hand onto his thigh and began to caress the fine fabric of his slacks. Obviously he hadn't been expecting the move, because she felt his muscles tense. The response gave her a jolt of satisfaction. She'd show him how well she could fit in here.

She was distracted when she saw the beefy guy with the pockmarked face lean over and whisper something to the blonde in the pink outfit.

His companion flushed and gave a quick shake of her head. But he spoke again, his face going hard. The woman paled at his aggressive expression. Unbuckling her seat belt, she made her way quickly down the aisle, keeping her gaze on the floor as she ran the gauntlet of curious eyes.

Probably everyone in the plane had seen the exchange. And they were all wondering what was going on.

Maddy expected the woman to approach one of the attendants who was at the back filling drink orders. Instead, she slipped into the rest room that was directly opposite where she and Jack were sitting. Although she closed the door firmly behind her, she didn't slide the lock into place.

Moments later, the guy got up and followed her, stepping through the door she'd just entered and locking it with a click.

Maddy stared at the closed door, then flushed as she heard a deep masculine laugh coming from inside the rest room. A very satisfied laugh—that ended in a groan.

Jack leaned back in his seat as he regarded the closed door. “I guess he's decided to become a member of the mile high club,” he muttered.

Maddy rolled her eyes, then stiffened a moment later as she heard a grunting sound from behind the closed door. Other noises followed, noises she could unfortunately interpret quite accurately, and she felt her face flame.

She was embarrassed for the woman in there. And embarrassed for herself—at being forced to endure the intimate sounds coming from behind the door. Once, she'd been in a hotel where the couple next door were having a very vigorous bout of sex. At least that time, they hadn't necessarily known that someone in the next room could hear them. Now, there was an airplane full of people very
aware of what was going on behind the closed bathroom door.

When she felt Jack's hand cover hers, she kept her eyes averted. But she turned her palm up and knit her fingers with his, gripping hard, as if he could rescue her from the helpless chagrin she shouldn't be feeling.

Lord, what kind of people had she gotten mixed up with on this trip?

Stupid question. She'd gotten mixed up with a planeload of gangsters who didn't subscribe to the normal rules of society, and all of them eager to get to Orchid Island, where there were no rules—except those made by Oliver Reynard.

She slid Jack a glance and saw by the tenseness of his body and the slight flush of his cheeks that he wasn't having quite the same reaction as she. The jerk was turned on!

Men!

The door opened, and she kept her eyes cast downward as the guy sauntered out with a smug grin on his face and headed back to his seat. It was five minutes before the woman followed, her head down and her hands pressed to her sides. Maddy knew she was dying inside at having everyone on the plane knowing what she'd been doing.

She shot Jack a scathing look.

He gave a little shrug.

“We are turning down the cabin lights so that you can enjoy some of our fine selection of movies on your individual television screens,” one of the attendants announced. “But if you prefer to read, the controls for the reading lights are on the arms of your chairs.”

Maddy didn't think she could concentrate on the written word. Jack must have agreed. Leaning forward, he reached for an arm that pulled a small television set in
front of them—positioned so that the screen could not be viewed from the aisle.

“Let's see what's on,” he suggested. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out the wired remote control cradled in the seat arm, then handed her a set of earphones, which she put on. When the menu appeared, Maddy stared at the titles, none of which she recognized.

Jack found a show, and she stared at the image that flicked to life on the screen. A man and woman were in a stark, modern bedroom, done in shades of gray and mauve. But the focus was on the couple standing in the middle of the thick carpet. She was wearing a filmy gown that did nothing to hide the dark crests of her nipples or the triangle of hair at the juncture of her legs. He was naked and seen from the back, all powerful muscles, tight buttocks, tanned skin.

As Maddy watched, he stepped toward the woman, took her in his arms, the camera angle shifting so the viewer could see him kissing her mouth, her neck, her shoulder. Then, with purposeful hands, he slipped down the straps of her gown, trapping her arms as he exposed her breasts.

It was all done artfully, erotically. Her breasts were perfect, not too large or too small. He lifted their weight in his hands, squeezed and kneaded, then circled her nipples, wringing a moan of pleasure from her—and a strangled sound from Maddy.

She didn't dare look at Jack, or anybody else who might catch the stunned expression on her face. Instead she kept her eyes glued to the screen.

The woman was obviously turned on by the attention because her nipples puckered. Her hand moved restlessly up and down the man's back, finding his buttocks and kneading with her fingers.

That questing hand sent a skitter of sensation along Maddy's nerve endings. And when the man bent to suck
one of the woman's distended nipples into his mouth, Maddy felt the reaction in her own breasts. In her sex.

Beside her, Jack had gone very still, his gaze riveted to the screen, his lips slightly parted.

She could hear his quick intake of breath. And her own.

There had been love scenes in movies that had turned her on. But none of them had been like this. Not this vivid or erotic.

It took almost no effort to put herself and Jack in the places of the man and woman making love on the small screen—because that was what she'd longed for since that first and only time.

She closed her eyes for a moment, scrambling for a sense of calm. But calm was beyond her. Maybe it was simply the permissive atmosphere all around her. Or perhaps it was easier to let the erotic images of the movie carry her along rather than to let her mind dwell on this planeload of ruffians and their women—or on what awaited her at Orchid Island.

Her eyes blinked open again to see that the actor on the screen had removed the woman's gown. And when his body turned slightly, Maddy saw that he was fully aroused, his penis standing out from his body, hard and firm.

The movie love scenes she'd seen before had all been simulated sex. She'd known that the Hollywood actors weren't really doing it. This was completely beyond her experience—a movie where the man was definitely not faking his arousal. Her first porn flick.

All she could do was goggle as she watched the woman take his erection in her hand, her fingers moving and caressing in ways that wrung a gasp from his lips.

Drops of liquid formed on the tip, and she caught them, massaging them into his distended flesh.

Then she knelt in front of him, took him into her mouth
while her hands played with her own breasts, fondling them the way he had done, plucking at her nipples while she pleasured him.

It was unbearably crude. And unbearably stimulating.

What was going to happen now? Was the woman going to bring him to climax like that? Or were they going to have intercourse?

She never got a chance to find out, because the screen went blank, and she was left sucking in air, left with a throbbing sensation between her legs.

“I think we've had enough television,” Jack growled, pulling off his earphones.

She gave a tight nod as she removed her own earphones. More than enough, actually.

She looked down at Jack's hand. The fingers were curled slightly as they rested on the arm of his chair. And she could imagine reaching for his hand and moving it six inches to the right and downward to her thigh.

She told herself to stop it. But she couldn't shut out the imagined sensation of his fingers pressed to her flesh. To her thigh and then over four more inches, to the juncture of her legs, to the part of her that pulsed and throbbed and radiated heat.

She squeezed her eyes shut again, angry with herself. Angry that she was behaving like a…a woman who was ruled by her passions, not her brain. Lord, she was no better than that couple who had slipped into the bathroom.