Broddock-Black 05 - Force of Nature (14 page)

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He undressed her, himself as well, and holding her in his lap sat on one of the low stools and, scooping water from the tub with one of the wooden buckets, poured it over them. He scooped out enough water to rinse the dirt from their bodies and then coming to his feet, carried Jo with him into the tub. Slowly lowering them into the warm water, he held her while they soaked and he marveled at the tranquility that overtook him, how vital this woman he barely knew had become to him. The moon was bright in the sky, the scent of pine pungent and fresh, the purple shadows of night surrounded them. His mind was clear as though the sacred Yu had cleansed his understanding and for these moments he and she were alone in the mists of night, bound by some enchantment—far from his enemies.

But an owl hooted in the distance, as if in warning and he was reminded of what lay before him. Lifting her from the tub, he sat down once again on the stool and washed her, shampooed her hair, rinsed away the soap with such gentleness she only stirred from time to time.

Returning to the tub for a last soak, the water felt smooth and silken, and his muscles and nerves once again released their tensions—the ugliness of the world drifting away like ripples on the water. They had tonight at least, he told himself, there was no point in accelerating the onset of morning. On this moonlit night, they had these rare moments of sukin-shippu, the intimate bond of skin-ship, sharing of a bath and perhaps understanding.

If he had been told even a week ago that he’d be bathing a woman with no ulterior motive other than unaffected kindness and friendship, he would have scoffed. Women were for pleasure—his pleasure—and while he was an accommodating and indulgent lover, self-interest was his prime motive. But tonight was different. Sound was muted, what was sexual and sensual merged in quietude; they were bound in a luxury of feeling, ephemeral and fragile. A rare happiness stirred inside him, and if it were possible he would have stopped time.

He knew better of course and with a small sigh, he rose from the tub, wrapped her in a blanket and carried her to his bed. He lay down beside her—saintly and serene, perhaps noble, disinclined to wake her when she was sleeping so peacefully.

There was no explanation for his conduct, no yardstick in his past against which to measure his benevolence. Lying propped on one elbow, he watched her sleep, no longer questioning his behavior, content to feel the enchanting pleasure.

Her dreams were fractured and disturbing, images of Flynn always just beyond reach no matter how much she yearned for him, no matter what she promised if only he would stay. His stark beauty and smile, his virility and strength lured and enticed her in the fantasy of her imagination, but when she came too near, he’d disappear and she’d be left saddened by his loss. She wanted the warmth of his body beside her, the scent of him in her nostrils; she wanted to feel his touch—like that.

Her eyes flew open, and she saw his hand poised above her, his smile exactly the same, the faint curve of his mouth enchanting.

“I was about to brush this lock of hair aside,” he murmured, his touch gentle as he lifted the dark tendril from her cheek.

“You’re here.” And she saw him as she had that first night at Stewart Warner’s dinner—the harsh beauty and intrinsic sexual heat, the competence to take on the world, and best of all that night, the ability to recognize her reckless urges at first glance.

“You’ve been sleeping.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” A small unease trembled through her senses.

He shook his head. “You were worn out.”

Half rising on her elbows, she glanced at the drawn drapes. “What time is it?”

“There’s time. It’s still dark.” The Empire crew needed daylight to take to the field.

His words assuaged her unease. He wanted her, she gratefully thought, as though she were a supplicant and only he could bestow the pleasure she craved. “I wish we didn’t have to worry about time,” she whispered, moving closer, wanting the feel and warmth of him, his body a magnet to her desires.

“Then we won’t.” He lifted her chin with a crooked finger and smiled. “Good evening, Miss Attenborough.” he murmured, with graceful politesse. “I was hoping your dance card wasn’t filled.”

She giggled. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

“I’m crushed.”

“You needn’t be. I wrote your name on every line.”

His dark brows flickered in amusement. “You’re a forward little vixen, aren’t you?”

“I knew that’s what you liked. Rumor precedes you, Mr. Ito.”

“Do you know everything I like?” he asked in a particularly enticing way.

She shook her head. “I was hoping you’d show me.”

The teasing disappeared from his voice. “You’re not too tired?”

“What would you do if I said yes?”

“Suffer in silence.” And surprisingly, for the first time in his life, he would have.

“You’re much too nice, Flynn.” She smiled. “And I owe you a favor for bathing me.” She touched her hair. “Perfume, too—I’m impressed.”

“If you really aren’t too tired, I was thinking I might impress you in another way,” he said, a teasing light in his eyes.

“With this?” Her hand slid down his chest and came to rest on the pulsing crest of his erection hard against his stomach. “With that.”

“We seem to be in complete agreement,” she whispered, circling the swollen head with her fingertip, gratified to hear him suck in his breath. “Come dance with me .. .”

“Fast or slow,” he murmured, lifting her hand away, not certain he could oblige her if her answer didn’t suit him. He’d missed her, it seemed.

“Silly question when I haven’t seen you for—”

“A very long time.”

She smiled. “Indeed, and you’re happy to see me after all.” She reached for the object of her desire, pulsing taut against his stomach.

“Very happy,” he said, warding off her hand. “But I can’t guarantee my control at the moment.” A shocking admission for a man who prided himself on self-control.

But he was too practiced to be completely selfish and he cared for her more than he might wish. He made love to her with gallantry and finesse—gently, tenderly—their senses more attuned after their bath, their flesh susceptible to the merest touch, even the lightest contact tingling on the surface of their skin, resonating, stealing downward, melting into every grateful, glowing hypersensitive nerve. She felt as though she belonged here when she’d never belonged anywhere before, his warmth and power, his gentleness enfolding her, the rhythm of his lower body matching hers, the tantalizing pleasure he offered exceptional, rare—hers alone.

She didn’t want to speculate that she may not have been the first to feel that way. Not now when there was so little time, when she wanted this all to last.

And he didn’t dare think, because with morning, she would be gone. Shutting his eyes, he buried his face in her hair spread on the pillow, drew in the scent of gardenia and smiled—the fragrance, heavy, so different from the fresh violet scent she wore. But she hadn’t complained, had even been complimentary. And while something so insignificant shouldn’t matter, he found her generosity enchanting. Like everything about her.

“I’m glad you rode so far,” he whispered, lifting his head, smiling down at her.

“So you could ride me.” Her smile was heated, close, her body arching up beneath him, skin on skin, silken friction inside and out, unalloyed pleasure scenting the air.

“For that,” he breathed, responding to her tantalizing undulation with a deftly placed downstroke that elicited a soft, low purr. “And this,” he softly added, pressing deeper. “And this . ..”

They had both perhaps, for reasons of their own, repressed what could no longer be repressed and they came with a sudden strange stillness, falling over the edge, softly, gently, together.

She noticed what he had not done with winsome delight.

He noticed but didn’t care, for the first time in his life.

Neither spoke of his climaxing in her as though by some tacit consent and he kissed her with special tenderness and thanked her.

Her eyes were half-closed in languor and her gratitude was whispered in a sultry contralto that brought a smile to his lips.

He wiped them both dry with the sheet, then lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, silent and utterly motionless.

Adrift in her own shimmering lush afterglow, she didn’t take alarm.

“Now then,” he said, after a time, pushing himself up against the headboard. And she thought he was going to deal with his blunder because Flynn had in the past always been scrupulously careful. “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

He was sitting beside her, nude and starkly handsome and distracted by his great beauty and the oddity of his question— the even greater oddity of his disregard for what he’d just done—it took her a moment to reply. “Dance?”

“You said, before, you wanted to dance.”

“I did?”

She hadn’t really, but their relationship to date had been primarily one of all-consuming sex, and he felt an inexplicable need for normalcy in these fugitive moments they had left. And what he had just done couldn’t be undone. The way of Zen would say, “Walk on,” for death follows life just one pace behind. “We have time for a dance or two,” he said instead.

She understood then. It was about mortality and impermanence. About his and theirs. “I’d love to dance with you,” she replied, holding her hand out to him.

He took it, raised it to his mouth, brushed a light kiss over her fingertips, intent on ignoring the past or the future, focusing his energy on the moment. “Do you have any requests?” Releasing her hand, he tipped his head toward a phonograph in the corner. “Although I’m not sure my music is the same as that in Florence.”

“How modern you are,” she lightly murmured, surprised to see a phonograph in the bedroom of a man like Flynn.

“We have all the amenities, Miss Attenborough.” His gaze was amused as though he understood her surprise.

“I can see.” Her gaze flickered down to his blatant erection, and when she looked up, he was smiling.

“Besides that,” he said, his smile broadening.

“Yes, of course, forgive my obsession.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Obsession’s in the air, I think.” She tried to speak as urbanely as he, tried to deal with the storm of her emotions in an adult, civilized way. But she found herself saying, “You’d better pick out a song quickly or no one’s going to dance.”

He grinned, slid from the bed and a moment later brought them both sumptuous silk robes, obviously Japanese and precious. Helping her into hers, overlarge and sea green, he slipped his on and drew her toward the phonograph. “I think a waltz would be suitable for our first dance.”

In love or in lust, mindlessly, desperately infatuated with him, she watched him as he selected a cylinder, his expression intent, his long, slender fingers deftly sorting through the various boxes. She felt as though she were in heat; she’d left Helena for that exact reason and her susceptibility to his sexual allure hadn’t diminished in his presence.

“Liszt’s ‘Mephisto Waltz’?” He held it out to her. “I’m in the mood,” he pleasantly said, as if he’d just met her in the ballroom and didn’t know her heart was beating in triple time. “Would you do me the honor?”

Tall and powerful, his dark hair just touching the shoulders of his gray silk robe embroidered with the cranes of long life, he was so beautiful her heart ached.

Unable to speak with her throat choked with tears, she nodded and moved into his arms. The rich melody swirled around them as they held each other, her cheek on the silk of his lapel, both scarcely breathing, their sensibilities awash in a tidal wave of emotions neither had expected or perhaps had thought themselves capable of resisting—bereavement and loss, an inchoate sense of commitment too bizarre to acknowledge and the lurid and perilous word, LOVE, writ large and disturbing.

“I don’t want to go,” she finally whispered.

“I know,” he said, terse and low, but he had nothing to offer her with his life and his future in the balance. “If it were possible,” he said with honesty if not complete conviction, “I’d say, stay.”

She looked up at him. “But it’s not possible.”

“No,” he gently replied. “Now dance with me because I don’t want to think about you going or”—he blew out a breath—“think at all. And I like this song.” Having come to grips with his tumultuous feelings, his voice changed at the end, took on a facile urbanity, and lifting her hands from around his waist, he placed one on his shoulder, held the other in his hand and softly humming the melody, twirled her around the room with sure-footed grace.

His dancing was adept like everything he did, she thought— peevish and jealous and too much in love for her peace of mind even while she knew it would never do to be in love with Flynn Ito. He was unreservedly single, self-indulgent, impossibly profligate and all the ladies he’d left behind were testament to his dissolute existence. A shame he could be so affectionate and appealing as well, worse that she didn’t have the strength to resist his allure.

When the music came to a stop and the last note died away, it seemed for a moment as though everything was over.

“Would you like another song or should I take this off instead?” he murmured, his voice low and silken, touching the sleeve of her robe.