Passion (5 page)

He kissed her, taking her mouth hard, thrusting his tongue back to her throat. She was aroused and wet and he was so damned
hard that she was in pain. Whimpering aloud, she reached for his erection, but as soon as her fingers closed around it, he
groaned and forced her away.

Grabbing her hand, he moved back onto the sidewalk and hesitated, then started toward Bourbon Street, pulling her along behind.
Where were they going? she wondered, pulling her blouse together, making an effort to keep up. His house, her hotel, or someplace
anonymous and nearby?

Her question was at least partially answered when he signaled a cab parked on the opposite side of Bourbon. The driver met
them at the corner, and John opened the back door, ushering her into the seat. “Where you want to go?” the driver asked in
accented English as John closed the door.

He looked at her, waiting for her to answer, and for one moment—one very brief moment—she wondered if he had lied about being
married. If he had, she didn’t want to know. She didn’t care.

Her throat tight, her voice husky, she gave the cabbie the name of her hotel.

Before the cab had pulled away from the curb, John was kissing her again, making his way down her throat. She let her head
fall back and bit her lip on a moan when she felt his hands inside her blouse, cupping her breast, lifting it, pushing her
nipple up to meet his mouth. To be wicked in New Orleans, she had requested, and surely this had to qualify: riding in a cab
down the streets of the French Quarter, letting
a man she’d known only a few hours suckle her breast while the driver behind the wheel sneaked leering glances in his rearview
mirror.

And she didn’t give a damn. As long as John didn’t stop…

They reached the hotel all too soon—and not soon enough. Her face hot—hell, her entire body was hot—Teryl arranged her clothing
while he paid the fare; then he hustled her inside, past the front desk, through the lobby to the elevators. Moments later
they were in her room, kissing, touching, arousing. He released her only to move her suitcase from the bed; she withdrew from
the daze of need only to retrieve the beribboned packets from D.J.’s zippered pouch.

They undressed quickly, the process made more difficult by kisses and tantalizing caresses, and he took one of the condoms
she offered. They barely made it to the bed before he was inside her, deep, damn, so hard and deep inside her, stroking, thrusting,
and kissing, hot, greedy kisses that demanded passion and offered satisfaction.

It was wild and frantic, lasting only moments before he came, before she came with him, tremors rocketing through her. They
lay for a moment, utterly still, utterly breathless, and then he grinned ruefully. “Damn.”

Damn, indeed, she silently agreed as she raised her hands to his face. It had taken only minutes—only
seconds
—and yet her heart was racing. Her muscles were quivering. Her entire body was trembling with such intensity, such fierceness.

As she stroked his jaw, he turned his head and placed a damp kiss in the center of her palm—a small thing to send such a shiver
through her. When she glided her hands lower, along his throat, across his chest, over his nipples, it was his turn to shudder.
She could feel it everywhere their bodies touched, could feel it best deep inside where her body still sheltered his.

He repaid the pleasure of her caresses with a kiss, long, hard, and intimate, making love to her mouth, sliding his tongue
deep inside, arousing hungers just satisfied and new ones not yet experienced. Just that kiss was enough to make her ache.
It was enough to make her move restlessly beneath
him. It was enough to make her arch against him, to shamelessly ask with wordless pleas for more, and that was enough to make
him give it. Harder kisses, hot and wet, on her mouth, her throat, her breasts. Rough touches, squeezing, rubbing, his hands
on her breasts, between their bodies, between her legs, making her groan. Deep, powerful thrusts, relentless, driving, pushing
her higher, harder, drawing a second breath-stealing orgasm from her only seconds before he came a second time himself.

He withdrew from her body and moved to lie beside her, gathering her close. Her heartbeat slowed, and her ragged breathing
evened out as hazy satisfaction wrapped itself around her. If this was what came of being wicked on vacation, she thought,
allowing herself one small smile in the near darkness, she would have to try it more often.

The ringing of the telephone jerked John back from the drowsy fringes of sleep, his eyes opening wide, his heart, for a moment,
racing. Many were the nights when his old nightmares had awakened him in much the same way, making him break out in a cold
sweat, tightening his chest, and making sweet air hard to come by. Those nights he had usually found himself in unfamiliar
places—he’d spent the first six years after Tom’s death on the run, trying to hide from the horror and the guilt—and he had
always been alone. Tonight he was once again in a strange place.

But he wasn’t alone. Teryl—long, soft, naked—was curled at his side.

Shifting away from her, he reached for the phone on the night table, cutting off the second ring in mid-peal, and answered
with a sleep-roughened hello.

There wasn’t silence on the line—he could hear slow, steady breathing and, muted in the background, the sound of a television—but
the caller didn’t speak. There was a sense of surprise, as if he—John knew it was a man, knew it with a certainty he couldn’t
explain—as if the man had been so completely unprepared for anyone but Teryl to answer that he couldn’t quite deal with the
fact that someone else had.

John didn’t repeat his greeting, didn’t ask if anyone was there. He simply listened to the measured breathing and the frenetic
commercial for the latest in new cars until, after a moment, the man broke the connection.

After hanging up, John slowly resettled in bed, and Teryl snuggled right up against him, as if it were the most natural thing
in the world. How natural would it seem to her, he wondered, if she knew how rarely he had shared his bed with a woman? How
comfortable would she feel if she knew that the only woman he had been intimate with in the last five years had taken her
payment in cash rather than pleasure?

Not to imply that Marcia had been a prostitute. She’d been a nice enough woman, alone after three bad marriages, with two
kids practically grown, and trying to make ends meet on a waitress’s salary. Their arrangement hadn’t started as business.
She’d been working the evening shift at a nameless little bar about twenty miles from John’s house, and he had been trying
to drink enough to take the edge off the loneliness that sometimes seemed to envelop his life. When he had been the only customer
remaining at closing time, she had invited him home with her, and, desperate to avoid his own company, he had gone.

He had returned time and again, not often but regularly enough. She had never asked for money, had never hinted that she wanted
anything more than he did—a connection, however brief, however meaningless, with another human being—but he had offered the
cash and she had accepted. It had developed into a mutually satisfying agreement: the generosity of her spirit repaid by the
generosity of his wallet.

Then, after a time, she had told him not to come back. She had met a man and was giving marriage another try. By that time
he’d been so caught up in the misery of
Resurrection
that he had barely missed her. He couldn’t even remember now how long ago it had been. Six months? Eight? Twelve?

Too damn long.

And now here he was with Teryl.

For a moment he allowed himself the pleasure of stroking her hair. It was soft, reaching almost to her shoulders, and so fine
that when he tangled it around his fingers, as soon as he
released it, the strands slithered free again. Softness—feminine softness—was one of the textures missing from his life, and
it fascinated him in all its forms: the silkiness of a woman’s hair. The gentleness of a womanly smile. The soothing timbre
of a woman’s voice.

The warm and infinitely soft welcome of a woman’s body.

Teryl had certainly welcomed him.

Leaving the television station with her had been a mistake, he acknowledged grimly, and seducing her had been a major mistake.
If not for the fact that he had misled her about himself from the beginning, he would say that neither of them was more responsible
than the other for what had happened here—the attraction had certainly been mutual—but he
had
misled her. He had concealed his identity, had lied to her all evening, had taken her to bed under false pretenses. She would
never willingly help him now.

So he would accept her unwilling help.

He would
force
her help.

He would give her no choice.

Deliberately he chose to ignore the discomfort those thoughts brought. He was intimately acquainted with guilt; he had lived
with the emotion for so long that it had become a part of him. Guilt over his own failures, guilt over Tom, over Janie, over
the irreparable harm he had done his family… He could bear the added burden for using and abusing Teryl Weaver. If he accomplished
his goal, he would salve his conscience by rewarding her for her help. Marcia had often told him he was a generous man. He
would make things right.

And if he didn’t accomplish it…

Trapped in the softness of her hair, his fingers curled into a tight knot. He would do it or die trying. It was as simple
as that.

After a moment, he pulled away and sat up, then swung his feet to the floor. It was cool in the room—the air-conditioning
had been turned low to combat the muggy June heat—and chills rippled along his skin as he tucked the covers securely around
Teryl. Gathering his clothes from the floor, he carried them into the bathroom, where he flipped on the light and dressed
without facing himself in the mirror. He
didn’t need to see his reflection. He didn’t want to look into the emptiness that was his own face, that reflected his soul.
He didn’t want to face himself, knowing what he was planning, knowing
how
he was planning to use an innocent woman.

After a moment, he returned to the bedroom, standing for a moment in the doorway, letting his eyes readjust to the lower light.
One lamp, its bulb dim and shaded, burned on the corner desk, and at the single wide window, the drapes were open, the sheers
closed, softening and diffusing the light that spilled in from outside.

The room was reasonably neat, as if, beyond sleeping last night and dressing this morning, she had spent little time here.
A few pieces of clothing were scattered across the dresser, and two pairs of shoes—three-inch heels and thick-soled sandals—sat
underneath the desk. One of the heels stood perfectly balanced on the plush carpet. The other lay discarded on its side.

Everything else, except the clothing she had hastily stripped off a few hours ago, was still in the suitcase. There was no
briefcase to be found, and her shoulder bag, barely bigger than his palm, had room only for a compact, a tube of lipstick,
what looked like about two hundred dollars tucked into an inside pocket, and a packet of tissues.

Lifting the suitcase to the dresser, he made a quick search, hoping for something,
anything,
that might give him a clue about the man she had come here with. He found lingerie, a pair of walking shoes and cushioned
socks, a cosmetics case, a bottle of reasonably expensive cologne whose fragrance now clung to his own skin, and a couple
of Mardi Gras masks wrapped in newsprint and secured with masking tape. He didn’t find an organizer, a notebook, or anything
interesting beyond her return ticket home. It was still in its original envelope, bearing the airline’s return address in
the upper left corner, and was for a flight scheduled to leave New Orleans late tomorrow evening.

He was returning the ticket to its envelope when writing on the back of the envelope caught his attention. Moving closer to
the window, he pushed back the sheer curtain so a
little more light fell on the hastily scrawled notes. There was the name of the hotel, the TV station, and the time for this
afternoon’s interview. Underneath that, she had written,
Simon, Wednesday, 9 a.m. Sheila??

Was the man masquerading as Simon Tremont flying out at nine tomorrow morning, or did her note have some other meaning—a meeting,
perhaps, or another interview? There was one way to find out: to be downstairs long before nine o’clock tomorrow morning.
If the guy checked out before then with suitcases in hand, John would know he was leaving, and he could…

He could do what? Follow him to the airport? Try to find out what airline he was flying, what flight he was taking, and where
it was taking him? That wasn’t much of a plan. If they didn’t get separated in morning rush hour traffic, if he somehow stayed
close enough to find out which airline the cab—or, more likely, the same white limo that had delivered the guy to and from
the television studio—took him to, if he somehow managed to follow him to the proper gate and get a flight number, all he
would learn was where that particular flight was going—and with his luck, it would be to some busy hub like Dallas or Atlanta.
He wouldn’t find out anything about the guy’s connecting flights. He wouldn’t find out the man’s ultimate destination.

Or there was his other option. Teryl. Letting the curtain fall, he returned the envelope to the suitcase before turning to
look at her. She was so slender that it seemed she made little more than a long narrow mound under the rumpled covers. She
was lying on her stomach now, her arms folded beneath the pillow, her face buried in its softness, her hair spreading out
like rich, glossy brown silk. He swallowed hard as his arousal, so recently sated, returned again as strong as ever. He would
like to take her like that—to undress and raise the covers and slide over to her, to kneel behind her, to lift her just enough
to slip inside. She would have to rise to her knees to accommodate him, would have to tilt her hips back to allow him entry,
would have to press her body downward to hold him there.