Passion (41 page)

With a sigh, she sat down in the chair he had vacated, feeling the wood slats, sun-warmed and rough, against her bare thighs.
Maybe John could turn Teryl against her… for a time. But he couldn’t make it last. After all,
she
was Teryl’s best friend, her sister, a part of her family. Who the hell was he? Some guy that Teryl had picked up on an overnight
trip, a summer fling who was introducing her to the darker side of her soul. He didn’t understand that, while Teryl might
be indulging his taste for the kinky and depraved, she wouldn’t settle for a lifetime of it. She couldn’t handle the guilt
and the shame. She was experimenting, getting off on the thrill of how bad she was being rather than truly enjoying the pain
and degradation. Soon the thrill would pass, and she would want to return to straight, plain, boring sex, to normalcy, to
being good. After all, Teryl made an art of being good.

When that happened, John would be gone, because to get rid of the shame, Teryl would also have to get rid of the man who’d
taught her the shame. She would force him from her
life, and she would try desperately to pretend that the entire nasty little interlude had never happened—and that would mean
coming crawling back to D.J., pleading for forgiveness, which D.J. naturally would offer… eventually.

Until that happened, though, it couldn’t hurt to be on guard. It couldn’t hurt to keep an eye on John, and the best way to
do that was to find out more about him. Right now she knew nothing except that he had more in common by far with her than
with her friend and that he had more strength of will than any man she’d ever known besides Rich. Hell, she didn’t even know
his last name.

Her gaze shifted from the house to the Blazer parked beside her car. You could tell a lot about a person from the car he or
she drove. Hers was sleek, fast, flashy, like her. It was her most prized possession, immaculate outside and in, the glove
box cluttered only with the manual that had come with it, a box of condoms, and a couple of her favorite CDs. Teryl’s car,
on the other hand, was nothing less than junky. It had suffered dents and dings on every surface, the tires were bald, and
the engine was always in need of a tune-up. She cleaned it only once in a blue moon and relied on rain to rinse off the worst
layers of dust and dirt. The glove compartment and console were stuffed with receipts, deposit slips, napkins from fast-food
restaurants, breath mints that were inedible, and junk mail intended for but never making it to the garbage. Food wrappers,
empty Coke cans, and an occasional M&M littered the floorboards.

The only item the two vehicles shared in common resided in their respective glove boxes: the vehicle registration. It was
a handy little piece of paper, full of interesting information like names and addresses.

If John was like virtually everyone she knew, his registration was in his Blazer. It would tell her his name and exactly where
he lived in New Orleans. With that information and the vast resources a lifetime of affairs had given her, she could find
out almost anything.

She glanced at the house as she stood up, then casually made her way past the fountain and toward the truck. If John discovered
her, she would make some excuse or, better yet,
create some distraction and be on her way. But there was no sign of him at any of the windows or French doors.

She always locked her car doors, even here at Teryl’s house, but her friend, she knew, usually left her own doors open here.
Teryl thought that location alone would protect her from thieves and prowlers. Granted, the big house on the other side of
the trees did have an elaborate security system and intelligent thieves, realizing that, wouldn’t bother with the estate at
all. But who said all thieves were intelligent? Most of them were just desperate, and while Teryl didn’t have much worth stealing,
what she did have, even her old car, could be taken and sold as easily as anyone else’s property.

As she circled behind the truck, her steps slowed. Somehow the green and white tag on the Blazer had escaped her notice on
her last visit. Chalk it up to surprise, she thought drily, due to all Teryl had done—turning wild and unpredictable and just
the slightest bit kinky after a lifetime of sainthood. But that was no Louisiana tag on a truck belonging to a man who claimed
to live in New Orleans. The license plate was issued by the state of Colorado and, according to its corner stickers, had recently
been renewed, which meant that John had very recently left Colorado for the steamier environs of New Orleans… or he had lied.

Feeling grim and more distrustful than ever, she tried the door on the driver’s side of the Blazer. It was unlocked.

Opening it, she climbed inside, automatically grimacing at the heat. The truck wasn’t spotless, like the Camaro, but it was
relatively clean. There was dust on the dash, and a few potato chip crumbs in the passenger floor—most likely Teryl’s, she
thought uncharitably—but there was no trash. No belongings. No mail bearing a convenient address. There was a little vinyl
sticker on the window advising that the Blazer was due for an oil change at sixty-four thousand miles; according to the odometer,
he was just over a thousand miles late. There was a handful of coins in the change tray and a pack of cigarettes, a book of
matches, and a flashlight in the center console.

Leaning across the stick shift, she opened the glove compartment.
Inside was the ever-present manual and—good luck—the registration slip. As soon as she committed the name and address to memory,
she would head home and make a few phone calls. There was this cop she knew… or maybe the private detective she’d dated a
few times would be a better choice. She had kept him occupied on more than a few long, boring surveillances, so he owed her
a favor or two. Besides, he lacked the cop’s ingrained sense of right and wrong. As long as there was something in it for
him, he didn’t care if it was legal, fair, or…

As she stared at the registration, her mind went blank, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. They had lied
to her. Teryl’s lover, her summer fling whom she’d picked up on a two-day trip to New Orleans, didn’t live in New Orleans;
his address was Route 4, Rapid River, Colorado. But his name was John, all right.

John H. Smith.

A
fter his shower that night, John dried off, drawing the towel carefully over the stitches in his right arm. They should come
out after ten days, the doctor had told him, and today was day ten. He could get the name of Teryl’s doctor and make an appointment
tomorrow, but it would be a waste of time better spent working. The laceration was healing on schedule. There was no sign
of infection, and the wound edges had come together nicely. All he needed was a pair of tweezers and some sharp-pointed scissors,
and he could take care of it himself.

He found both items in the drawer, tossed in with a jumble of brushes and combs, razor cartridges, and a broken emery board.
It took only one try to realize that he needed something else: an extra hand. He could use the tweezers to pull the suture
taut or he could snip the thread while it was being held taut, but he couldn’t do both.

He needed Teryl’s help.

She had come upstairs more than an hour ago, leaving him with an old Lorna Terrill movie. He’d paid little attention to the
movie, though, and far too much to the sounds Teryl was making upstairs—a trip from the bedroom to the bathroom, the water
running while she showered, and a return trip to the bedroom followed by the closing of her door. When he had finally come
up for his own shower, the door had remained
closed, a thin line of yellow light seeping underneath it. He had felt thoroughly shut out.

Dropping the tweezers on the counter, he pulled on his jeans, then picked up the tools once more and opened the door. Her
light was still on, so she was still awake. She probably wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed, particularly when she had retreated
to the privacy of her room, but he was going to do it anyway.

There was a rustle of movement inside the room that stilled when he knocked at the door. He could imagine her standing there
in the thin tank top that he’d fantasized about, wishing he would go away, wondering if she could stay quiet enough to convince
him that she’d fallen asleep with the light on. He knocked a second time and heard movement; then she pulled the door halfway
open and faced him from behind it.

She was ready for bed, with her hair brushed back, her nose shiny with moisturizer, and the bedcovers turned down. She
was
wearing the tank top and, over it, a cotton robe that reached only to her knees. The robe probably gave her some measure
of modesty, he thought with a mirthless smile. After all, it was as demure as any dress. But it was worn and thin and concealed
only enough to remind him of what it was covering. As if he needed reminders.

When she continued to hide behind the door, he eased into the room, forcing her to give up its security and back away. “I
need a favor. It’s time to remove the stitches from my arm, but I can’t manage with only one hand. I want you to do it for
me.”

Her gaze moved to his arm and the row of sutures there, long, red, dotted with small scabs and the black tails of stitches,
fourteen in all. “Don’t you think you should see a doctor?”

“I don’t need a doctor. You can do it.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she agreed and took the tweezers and scissors from him. “All right. Sit down.”

The only choices were the wooden chair in front of the makeup table or the bed. He chose the bed.

Standing in front of him, she took a deep breath, braced
the heel of her hand against his arm, and used the tweezers to grasp the top suture. She gave the slender black thread a slight
tug, snipped it just above the skin, then drew it out the other side, leaving behind only the two small needle marks. He hadn’t
known whether to expect a small prick of pain, but all he felt was a curious pulling sensation that couldn’t begin to compete
with the feel of her hand on his arm or the heat radiating from her body or the smell of shampoo that scented her hair.

The next sutures came out just as easily. The fifth one, though, tugged at the scab that had crusted around it, making it
bleed. So did the next one, and, in spite of her obvious efforts to be gentle, the next.

He was in a pathetic state, he thought, fixing his gaze on the French doors behind her, when he could savor such attention.
It said something about how rarely he had allowed himself the pleasure of a woman’s touch, about how needful he had become.
And he sure as hell was needful. His entire body was starting to tingle, craving the attention she was giving his arm, wanting
her fingers, soft and warm, to stroke there, to caress here, to curl around him there. If she took much longer with this,
she was going to make him hard, which would make her uncomfortable.

He was damned sick of making her uncomfortable.

He would sacrifice his soul for another evening like the one they’d shared in New Orleans. For the pleasure of her smiles.
For the arousal in her eyes. For the heated kisses, the desperate desire, the incredible tightness of her body gloving his.
He would give up a few years of his life to stretch the evening into an entire night, to sleep beside her, to know that she
was only inches away, to awaken when the sun came through the French doors and find her against him.

He would even consider giving up Simon Tremont if one evening could become a night, if one night could become a lifetime.
He would give up damned near everything if he could have Teryl in return.

Teryl, who was still dealing with the turmoil he’d brought to her life. Who wouldn’t thank him for the doubts he’d created.
Who would never accept him without absolute proof.
Who wouldn’t forgive him all that he’d done. Who had been perfectly happy before she knew he existed and wouldn’t be that
way again until he was once more out of her life.

Jesus, he wasn’t asking for much, was he?

In front of him, she was leaning forward to reach the lower stitches. The movement directed his gaze downward as the ratty
robe she wore gapped at the top, and the loose neck of the tank top fell open, too, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of the
beginning swell of her breasts. The skin there, he knew, was creamy and soft. It smelled of powder and perfume and tasted
of heat and desire. He had fondled her breasts on a French Quarter street, had suckled them in the backseat of a hired cab
and in the cool, dim privacy of her hotel room. He could touch them again now—could raise his hand, slide it between the folds
of old, well-worn fabric until he reached the contrast of satiny smooth breast and spiky, hard nipple. He could give her pleasure,
if she would take it, and could feed his own hunger. He could ease her desire and satisfy his own craving—at least, for a
while. Nothing could ever satisfy him permanently, nothing short of spending the rest of his life with her, and he knew that
was impossible. She deserved much better than he could ever give her… and he deserved far worse.