Night Whispers (32 page)

"What a shame," he said solemnly.

Sloan nodded agreement. "Paul stayed ashore with her."

"I'm devastated."

She saw it then—the gleam of amusement in his beautiful gray eyes that made him seem infinitely more familiar to her. At the same time, something else occurred to her, and she looked swiftly at the table, noting the flowers, the candles flickering in crystal bowls, and the place settings of china and silver. Two place settings. Two chairs. Torn between guilt over Paris and mirth at his highhandedness, Sloan settled for trying to look indignant. "You knew all along that Paris is afraid of helicopters!"

"The possibility never occurred to me," he said piously.

"It didn't?" Sloan was startled but not convinced.

Slowly, he shook his head, his eyes laughing at her expression because she clearly knew he was hiding something and she was not going to give up until she figured it out.

"You've known her for years, but you didn't know until today that she's afraid of helicopters—?" Sloan summarized dubiously. A new possibility suddenly occurred to her, and she put it into words: "By any chance, is that because Paris
isn't
really afraid of them?"

Noah couldn't stand it anymore. Leaning down, he nipped her ear and whispered, "Paris is licensed to fly them."

Laughing, Sloan tried to ignore the effect of his warm breath in her ear and gestured toward the table and the ship. "But why did you go to all this trouble for just the two of us?"

"I wanted to atone for last night's lawn chair."

"With all this?" Sloan teased. "Don't you ever do anything halfway?"

"I did that last night," he said meaningfully.

The subtle change in his tone and the underlying significance of his remark momentarily slipped past Sloan. "But I
liked
the lawn chair."

"You'll like the accommodations here better."

It was fair warning of his intentions, and Sloan's stomach lurched.

"Would you like a tour?"

"Yes," she said quickly, imagining a tour of engines and boilers and bilge pumps. He took her hand, linking his fingers through hers, but even the warmth of his firm handclasp couldn't banish the raging misgivings she felt at the realization he intended to make love tonight.

She'd known this moment would come, but he'd chosen the wrong time, the wrong place, because everywhere she looked, she saw unmistakable, dramatic proof that the world he inhabited wasn't merely different from hers, it was in another solar system. This was a fleeting holiday fling for him, a two-week diversion, if it lasted the full two weeks. For her, it was… She couldn't bear the thought, but she could no longer escape it: This was history repeating itself.

She was her mother, only thirty years later. She was insane about Noah Maitland, and he was as unattainable as he was irresistible. She'd waited her whole life to fall in love, and now she'd spend the rest of it comparing everyone to him.

He led her one flight up the nearest exterior stairway and stopped at the first door on that deck. "This is the master stateroom," he said, swinging the door open.

Sloan tore free from her growing panic, glanced into the large, opulent room, and her gaze riveted on the king-size bed. The thick coverlet was already turned back invitingly, the recessed lighting low and seductive. In a deliberate attempt at flippancy, she said brightly, "It's not Motel Six, but I guess at sea people like you have to settle for what's available." She hated the way she sounded so much that she apologized in the next breath. "I'm sorry. That was a rude, stupid thing for me to say."

He studied her in silence, his expression unreadable. "Why did you say it?"

Sloan sighed and opted for honesty. Lifting her eyes to his, she admitted with quiet candor, "I did it because I'm nervous and uneasy. I'm used to thinking of you as you are with Courtney and Douglas." She made a halfhearted gesture that included him and the ship. "I didn't expect to find you here, with all this. I didn't even recognize the tone of your voice when I heard you talking on the phone. I don't really know you at all," she finished in a desperate, despairing voice.

Noah understood her problem perfectly, because he didn't recognize himself when she was near. Gazing at her alluring upturned face, he contemplated the sweetness of what she was saying and admired her courage for saying it—while he tried to decide whether he most wanted to bury his face in her fragrant hair and laugh at her misgivings, or bury his lips in hers and smother her doubts there. She actually regarded his wealth as a drawback, rather than his most desirable attribute, and that made her all the more unique to him—and twenty times more desirable.

In response to her fear of not knowing him, Noah took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "You know me, Sloan," he whispered as he purposefully lowered his head. Slowly, tantalizingly, he smoothed his lips back and forth over hers, coaxing them to open for him. "Remember?" he whispered huskily, his hands sliding over her shoulders and back. Abruptly his mouth opened over hers and he deepened the kiss.

It took him less than fifteen seconds to bring Sloan's memory into sharp focus, and all her defenses began to crumble. As if her hands had a will of their own, they slipped inside his jacket and slid over his hard chest, curving over his shoulders and around his neck. He lifted his mouth a fraction from hers, his eyes smoldering, his voice thick with desire. "Now do you remember me?"

Sloan realized it was already too late to turn back, because she was never going to be able to forget him. It was pointless to deny herself the rest of the memories he'd make for her in this room. There'd be time enough for loneliness and regret in Bell Harbor. In the meantime, she wanted to be with him tomorrow and the next day, and maybe the next—as long as her appeal lasted.

He was waiting for her answer, and Sloan nodded, her voice reduced to a soft moan of surrender. "Yes." Leaning up on her toes, she crushed her mouth to his. She kissed him back with all the love and desperation in her heart, and his response was shattering. His mouth became insistent and hungry, his arms wrapped tightly around her, holding her against his rigid body, and his hands wandered possessively over her back and the sides of her breasts.

He shoved the door closed with his foot, and Sloan felt a thrill of nervous excitement, but instead of heightening the passionate exchange, he slowed it down. He kissed her until she was twisted into knots of desire—long, languorous kisses, followed by hard, demanding ones, while his hands explored and caressed her, matching the intensity of each kiss.

Sloan felt his fingers at the zipper of her gown just before he lifted his mouth from hers. He stepped back abruptly to pull off his tuxedo jacket, and the strapless gown slid to the floor at her feet. Automatically, she reached down to pick it up.

"Don't," he said, his gaze lingering on her rosy breasts, his hands swiftly unfastening his shirt.

He obviously had no inhibitions about undressing in front of her, but Sloan felt self-conscious enough for both of them.

When she turned away to finish undressing, Noah realized simultaneously that she was embarrassed and that her nude body was a miracle of ripe curves, slender limbs, and glowing skin. He unfastened the studs from his shirt cuffs while he watched her reach up to pull the pins out of her hair. With her hands raised and her head slightly bent like that, she reminded him forcibly of a painting of a nude that was hanging in the Louvre. When the last pin was out, she gave her head a hard shake, and her hair tumbled onto her shoulders in a waterfall of shining gold.

She was stunning, Noah thought with a surge of undiluted lust.

She was shy, he reminded himself.

He came up behind her and slid his arms around her, drawing her back against him. "You take my breath away," he whispered against her neck. In response, she shivered. He turned her around and brought her down onto the bed; then he stretched out beside her and leaned up on his left arm, his hand resting beneath her nape.

Sloan waited with mounting anxiety while his gaze traveled over every curve and hollow of her body. When his gaze lifted to hers again, there was no mistaking the reckless glitter in those heavy-lidded gray eyes. His hand tightened, lifting her face, and she braced instinctively for a quick assault. Instead, it was a soft stroking kiss, as feather-light and relaxing as the slow stroking of his fingertips against her nape. A very reassuring kiss.

Reassured, Sloan turned into him and kissed him back, and as soon as she did, his right hand slid over her shoulder to her breast, cupping it, his thumb slowly circling her nipple. It was a teasing touch, a tantalizing touch.

Tantalized, Sloan spread her hand over the solid wall of his chest, sliding her fingers through the short, dark matting of hair. His skin felt like hot satin over steel, his nipple hard and small as she lightly grazed it with her palm. His arm was bunched muscle, his throat a corded column. Beneath her exploring fingertips, his jaw was chiseled from granite, his cheek carved from marble. He was magnificent, she realized achingly. And he was hers. For now. The hair at his temple was smooth…

To Sloan these touches were a poignant discovery; to Noah they were caresses so delicate and unexpected that they were profoundly stirring. He lifted his mouth from hers, watching her in tender disbelief while she sent desire pounding through his entire body.

Oblivious to the effect she was having on him, Sloan brushed her fingertips over his mouth. His lips were sculpted from a wondrous material that was firm and warm and mobile. His brows were thick and straight; his beautiful eyes were—open.

Startled, she looked up at him. His face was hard and dark with passion, a muscle moving spasmodically in his throat. She understood what she saw; she didn't care how she'd caused it. Curving her hand around his nape, she closed her eyes, arching against him, and felt the gasp of his breath against her mouth when she kissed him.

His mouth opened over hers, demanding and urgent, his tongue stroking intimately against hers while his hand slid down her body. His fingers tangled in the tiny, springy curls between her thighs and gently gained entry. Sloan writhed beneath the sensual onslaught of fingers stroking deep inside her and the intimate stroking of his tongue against hers.

He tore his lips from hers and slid his mouth down her neck to her breasts, and by the time he returned to her lips, Sloan was clutching his shoulders, her fingers biting into his back.

His hands cupped her bottom and pulled her up against him, fitting her to his length; then he drove into her with enough force to make her body arch. Each slow, demanding thrust pushed her closer to the edge; then without warning, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his back, carrying her with him.

She stared at him in disbelief, seated on top of him, and Noah chuckled at the startled expression on her flushed face. If she had been anyone else, he would have finished without doing this, but he wanted her to experience as much as his body would allow before he lost control. At least he told himself that was why he was doing it, but in some part of his passion-drugged brain, Noah knew his reason was somehow connected with her other two lovers. They had been clumsy and inept. He was neither. And he wanted to be absolutely certain Sloan knew that when they left this room.

Reaching up, he threaded his hands through the sides of her hair. "You are exquisite," he whispered. His hands slid down to her breasts, then reluctantly released them and settled on her hips, helping her to start.

She hadn't been lying about her lack of experience, Noah realized a few minutes later as he suppressed a laughing groan. She had no idea how to gauge the tempo for him; she slowed it when he wished she would go faster, changed it when he wanted her to sustain it. He couldn't predict the next moment or depend on her next movement, and because he couldn't, she now had him in a sustained state of excited suspense that was more arousing than it would have been if she had known what she was doing.

Just when he decided that, she began to watch his face and adjust to the pressure of his hips, and Noah's amusement died. The passion he thought he had under control was surging through his loins with enough force to make him grasp her hips to stop her. Pulling her onto his chest, he struggled to stop the rampage, and when he couldn't, he rolled her gently onto her back. He shifted on top of her, his hips pinning her to the bed as he began to thrust deeply inside of her. He dragged his mouth roughly across her cheek, longing to imprint himself on her mind as he was embedding himself in her body. "Open your eyes," he said, his voice reduced to a raw whisper.

Her long russet lashes flickered open. Silently, her eyes begged for release, and silently, he promised it to her. His shoulders and arms rigid with the strain of holding back, he began to increase the force of each stroke.

Sloan felt the pulsing beginning deep inside her. It quaked through until it finally exploded in a burst of extravagant pleasure that tore a low whimper from her throat. Noah drove into her one more time, his body shuddering with the same pleasure he'd given her. His head fell forward, his breathing labored. Wrapping his arm around her hips, he moved onto his side with her.

Sloan lay there, too shaken by what she'd felt to think, glorying in the simple thrill of being held in his arms. As sanity slowly returned, however, it became obvious to her that the man who had just made love to her had perfected the technique, undoubtedly through a great deal of practice with a great many women. On the other hand, she didn't think he'd found her so completely inexperienced that she bored him and he wouldn't want her again. If that were so, surely he wouldn't be holding her so close now, his hand lazily rubbing the curve of her waist. As a precaution, she decided to say something to him. "Noah?"