Dance of the Crystal (20 page)

And made him feel like the king of the mountain.

Ruthlessly he turned the faucet to cold and stepped under the frigid spray, trying to put Crystal D’Angelo out of his mind. It wouldn’t take long. He’d forget her by tomorrow. He wanted to forget her. Had to forget her.

Because love hurts.

* * * * *

Dispiritedly, Crystal stepped out of a shower as hot as she could stand it and reached for a pair of warm, fluffy towels. She’d worked out a number of possible scenarios to approach Soren again as she stood under the relaxing spray, but discarded them all. She wasn’t a vamp. She wasn’t devious. What she was, was tenacious. Some inspiration would come, she was sure of it. He hadn’t seen the last of her.

She towel-dried her freshly shampooed hair, combed the knots out of it, and clipped barrettes to keep the unruly curls away from her face. After drying her body and hanging up the damp towels, she strolled nude into her bedroom and posed in front of the cheval mirror.

Her breasts were adequate, she judged as she lifted them to feel their heft. Maybe a little too full, too ripe. Her hips curved in the right places, and her waist was tiny. She turned to catch a glimpse of her derrière. Maybe a little too round. But she had good legs. Not long like a runway model’s, but shapely and proportionate to her five-foot, three-inch body.

She stroked her clit absently. He certainly hadn’t taken exception to her sexual response. She’d been eager, hungry for his touch, and had surprised even herself with her passionate nature.

No, it wasn’t her body that had turned Soren off, she was sure. It was his own mind. His pain.

With a sigh she opened a dresser drawer and withdrew an extra-large sweatshirt that said “Librarians are novel lovers”. She had bought it years ago during a fund-raising event for the Bryn Mawr Library.

Under it she pulled on a pair of frayed blue tights. This was her “feel-good” attire, like the little boy in the Sunday cartoons who clung to his blanket. Within this cotton and wool she felt cuddled, wrapped in warmth, safe.

She took the stairs down to the first floor and rummaged in the fridge. She’d made a lasagna the day before, hoping that she and Soren would eventually end up here in her kitchen after a day of lovemaking and sharing.

Well, two out of three was good, wasn’t it?

* * * * *

The man pumped his fist into the air.
Yes!
He’d gotten here in time. He adjusted the camera’s zoom lens to its full 400-millimeter setting as he watched her drop the towel and come into view in the center room on the second floor, the one with the full-length windows opening onto a balcony.

Her bedroom.

She stood before a mirror in all her naked splendor and posed for him, thrusting those exquisite breasts upward and outward so that they almost filled the lens as he clicked. As she touched them, the dusky nipples stood hard at attention, teasing him, filling his cock with lust. He frowned at that. He’d have to punish her for making him have such impure thoughts.

Nudging the camera downward on its beanbag base, he focused on the dark brown curls that nestled where her thighs came together. This was where he would have to punish her, pull her legs wide apart and tie her knees to the restraints at the sides of the bed, and flail her slit until it wept for him. For she had taken a lover. She was no longer pure. He would have to whip the badness out of her.

She reached between her legs, touching and stroking herself at the slit that was his and his alone. How dare she! When he had her to himself, he would teach her how to be pure. He would never allow her to please herself. She would have to beg him to do so. And she would learn that the only way she could find relief would be at his hands—with the whip.

The grandmother was key. She doted on the old woman. All he had to do was capture Rowena D’Angelo and Crystal would rush to her rescue.

And he would save her. Forever.

* * * * *

Crystal stared morosely at the lasagna. She’d made way too much for one person. She should divide it into portions and store them in the freezer. But not just yet.

She wanted to keep the illusion—that Soren would join her—alive for a little while.

Shoving the oblong pan back into the fridge, she took out the brie, a pear, and an opened bottle of Chianti that she’d used for the marinara sauce. She arranged them on a small lacquered tray along with a deep-bowled wine glass and settled down on the sofa in the living room.

This was shaping up to be a good-book kind of night. Time to start that new Jaid Black she’d been wanting to read. Or, instead of erotic romance, maybe she’d be better off with something interesting and heart-pounding, like Ninety-Nine Ways to Prepare Squid.

At her entertainment unit she set the CD player for some vintage Sinatra, the one where he sang only sad songs like “Only the Lonely” and “One for the Road”. She certainly didn’t feel like a Franz Lehár operetta tonight.

She knifed off a tip of brie, spread it on a pear slice, tucked her fuzzy-slippered feet under her and nibbled on the hors d’oeuvre. Laying her head against the back cushion, she closed her eyes and ordered herself to concentrate on the juxtaposition of taste and feel on the tongue, the creamy-smooth cheese, the juicy, ripe fruit.

No good. She kept imagining the creamy-smooth skin of his cock as it slid in and out of her mouth, the juicy ripeness of her slit as it lubricated her passage for him.

Face it, girl. You’re hooked. You want this man.

She touched the bump that her crystal made under the sweatshirt. Grandma was so right. Soren was the man for her. Only Soren.

All right, girl, get off that one-track mind.“A kick-ass heroine, that’s what I need,” she declared as she shoved off the sofa and went in search of a J.D. Robb or a Suzanne Brockmann.

The doorbell rang while she was rummaging through her to-be-read pile stashed in her downstairs guestroom whose window faced the front porch. Silently she moved to the window and cracked open the blinds with one finger, squinting in the dusk at the tall figure standing in silhouette.

Soren!

Oh God, she looked a mess. No makeup, her ratty tights frayed along the edges, her hair shooting every which way because she’d let it dry naturally—

So what? If they were fated to be together for the rest of their lives, he’d be bound to see her at her worst once in a while. If he couldn’t take it, she’d better find out early, hadn’t she?

Regardless of how he might or might not react, her heart was making funny little loop-de-loops in her chest as she came down the hall, flicked on the porch light and unlocked the door.
Be cool. Don’t fawn
all over him,
she repeated to herself.

“Hi,” she said, proud that the word came out without squeaking.

“I told you, I’m no good at this thing.” Soren flicked his hand back and forth between them. “You know, man-woman stuff. But I, uh, lasagna? You made it?”

Her smile blossomed. “I did. It’s a killer recipe, if I do say so myself.”

“I’m willing to risk dying. I’m partial to lasagna. Especially when it doesn’t come frozen from a cardboard carton. Even though she was Nordic down to the blonde pigtail wrapped around her head, my grandmother put together a lasagna that made me a fan for life.”

“Uh-oh, I hope I can measure up. Come in and let’s see how I rate.” She stepped back to invite him into the hall, drinking in the sight of him with her eyes. The snug jeans, the dark blue button-down shirt under a leather bomber jacket. His five-o’clock shadow noticeably absent.
Yes!

He followed her in, closed and locked the door behind him.
Oh, you rate
, he thought as he imagined the gentle sway of her sweet ass under that shapeless sweatshirt as she walked through the living room.

Dammit, but he still didn’t know what dumb impulse brought him here when he’d had to run the gantlet of the kitchen staff a second time when he went back out, hair wet and slicked back, freshly shaved, everyone probably speculating that he wanted to get laid again.

No, it was more than that. He wanted to be with Crystal, that was all. Whatever happened after, would happen.

He stepped into the kitchen just as she was bending down to slide the pan into the oven. The stretchy blue material covering her bottom cradled her ass like a second skin, making the demarcation of the two halves distinct and making his mouth water. He’d known, loved the feel of that soft cushion of muscle and fat in his hands, the silky smoothness of her naked skin against his. He wondered if she’d ever…if he’d be too big to fit…

He forced thoughts of ass-fucking out of his mind as she stood up and reached into another cupboard, bringing out a wine glass.

“It’ll take at least a half hour for it to warm up. I just set out a bottle of Chianti and some cheese. We can nibble on stuff in the living room while we wait.”

“You look different.”

She stiffened. “I don’t mean you look bad,” he rushed on. “It’s just, you look, I don’t know, like a teenager or something. Your skin is so pure and shiny. I mean it looks so healthy, so…vital, I guess.” His gaze dropped down to her chest and read aloud the legend silk-screened onto it. “Librarians are novel lovers.” He smiled and could feel the corners of his eyes crinkle. He didn’t often smile that broadly. “I didn’t know you were a librarian. And look at how you blush. I’ve never seen anything so pretty as a blush. Your blush, that is.” He stroked her cheek, felt the heat of blood spreading through her capillaries.

“Crystal.” While his fingertips touched her cheek, he bent his head and gently kissed each corner of her soft, trembling mouth. “You’re an amazing woman.”

He looked into the brown depths of her wide-open eyes and felt himself falling.

* * * * *

“Bitch! The bitch! How could she do this!”

He thought she’d gotten rid of that big hulk who was hanging around her. But from the looks of things, it was getting out of hand. He’d have to do something sooner rather than later.

He packed up his surveillance equipment, climbed down from his vantage point in the forest outside her backyard and began to execute Plan B.

Chapter Fourteen

“You were right. That lasagna was awesome.”

Crystal leaned back in the spindle-back chair. “Must have been. You had three helpings,” she teased.

“And you just…threw some spices in a jar with oil and stuff and…and it tasted like something that should have Paul Newman’s face on the label.”

“Oh, you mean the salad dressing?” She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I never do the same thing twice.

I like to experiment.”

Soren raised a thick blond eyebrow. “Is that right?”

Another blush began to make its way up her cheeks. “In fact,” she said, rising from the table and picking up both their dirty plates, “I’ve been mulling over an idea about another experiment.” She rinsed the dishes and stashed them in the dishwasher. “Are you game?”

“Don’t tell me. You’re going to throw together some chocolate, butter and cognac—and presto!

Dessert!”

Her laugh wrapped around him. She had such verve, such an optimistic way of looking at things, as though everything was a happy adventure. “Not quite, but it could certainly turn out that way.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What kind of experiment?”

She turned to face him, her hips resting against the counter. “I’ve created a new kind of poker. Can I interest you in a game?”

“If you dare. I’ve been known to win a pot or two.”

“Okay. Clear the table and I’ll a find a poker deck.”

“Marked cards?” He smirked as he gathered the salad bowl and lasagna pan and brought them to the counter.

“No way.” With a flourish, she opened a drawer and produced a deck still wrapped in cellophane. “You open them, and test them for bumps or nicks, or whatever it is that card sharks use to feel for aces.”

When the table was cleared and wiped down, he unwrapped the deck and with an expert grace riffle-shuffled the cards a number of times.

“Mmm, I’m impressed,” she said, eyes sparkling as she slipped into the other chair.

He slapped the deck face down on the table. “Cut.”

She did then stacked the bottom half on the top, leaving her hand on the pile. “Here’s how this game is played. Six cards up. No draw. Winner gets to make a mild demand of the other, like ‘Pour me some more wine’, or ‘One little kiss, no hands’. Mild,” she repeated.

Taking the cut deck in her hands, Crystal proceeded to deal one card at a time to each, carefully placing the subsequent cards to cover at least half the previous one. When she had laid out six each, Soren swept his into a pile.

“No! Leave them the way I set them.”

“I just wanted to put my two aces together to be sure you knew they beat your king-high,” he said with a Groucho Marx leer.

“You didn’t need to set them in sequence in order to see you had two aces,” she argued as she returned them to their original arrangement. “Anyway, I’m not finished with how this game is played. After the first hand, the other partner removes the first three cards of each dealt hand, and adds three more from the deck. So you have to leave them exactly the way they were dealt. No bluffing, no discarding.”

“Okay, I understand. You’re afraid you can’t compete with my strategy and you’re counting on chance to win. So,” he said, cutting off her objection and making a big show of studying her hand, “looks like I won this one. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Good. My request is that you get rid of that baggy sweatshirt.”

“You can’t do that! I said ‘a mild demand’, not ‘strip poker’.”

“But I asked you in a very mild tone of voice, did I not?” he asked mildly.

He could see the flush building up in her cheeks again. God, he loved to make her blush. And her face was so transparent, he could almost read the emotions crossing it, that this was really what she’d wanted to happen, only not so soon.

Soren played a trump card. “You did say you like to experiment, did you not?”

Her cheeks got even redder.
Caught ya
.

“Fine.” Without ceremony she crossed her arms at her waist, pulled up the hem of the sweatshirt and ripped it up over her head.