Passion (7 page)

It pained Teryl to admit that she wouldn’t be sorry to see them go.

“You must have spent a lot of time here,” she remarked, watching as Sheila and the clerk apparently debated some charge on
the bill.

“Why do you say that?”

Her gaze shifted back to him. Her first thought was that he must be joking, but his expression proved her wrong. He was asking
the question in all seriousness, and, for a moment, all she could do in response was shrug awkwardly. “The books. The Thibodeaux
books.” The five books that had won him throngs of fans. The five books that, more than anything else, had stirred her interest
in New Orleans. The five books that had been the reason for making his public debut here.

He shrugged, too, brushing off the books as inconsequential. “You can learn an awful lot about a place without ever going
there, Teryl.”

“But you captured the city so perfectly—the atmosphere, the feel, the flavor.”

“Do you think a writer has to experience something to write knowledgeably about it? That a romance author writes all those
love scenes from her own personal experiences? That a mystery author has to commit a murder to be able to describe one? That
a science fiction author has to interact with aliens—” He let his question trail off, then shrugged again before continuing
in a condescending tone. “It’s imagination, understanding, attention to detail, and a way with words. It’s called talent,
Teryl. I travel some, but most of my research is done at home. I watch travelogues and read travel magazines. I get specific
information from local tourism offices. Talent takes care of the rest.”

Another disappointment, Teryl thought, even though her expression didn’t reveal it. Each of his books was so intense and so
well done that she’d always read them with a mental image of Simon in the places where his stories unfolded. She had just
known
that he had lived for a time on the same rugged Maine coast where the protagonist of his first book had lived, that he was
intimately familiar with the stately old mansion in the Florida Keys that dominated his third book, that he knew every inch
of the Georgia swamp covered by the characters in his sixth book.

And she was wrong. As D.J. had predicted, another illusion was lost.

When Teryl had first found out that she was being included in this trip, her friend—ever more sensible, always more cynical—had
tried to warn her that she was setting herself up for disappointment in a major way. Simon Tremont was just a man, she had
lectured, and New Orleans was just a city. It was unlikely that either one could live up to Teryl’s sky-high expectations.
In D.J.’s opinion, she had romanticized the hell out of both of them, had built up their virtues and denied them their flaws,
and she was going to find reality one hell of a disappointment.

At the time, Teryl had argued the point. She was realistic. She knew Simon had flaws, and she knew that the grace and elegance,
the history and the romance and the exotica, of New Orleans were balanced by the seamier side intrinsic to any big city.

So she’d been half-wrong. She
hadn’t
been prepared to allow Simon his flaws. She had wanted him to be exactly as she had imagined him for eleven years, and he
wasn’t. He wasn’t even close.

But she had also been half-right. The city, at least, was everything she could have asked for and more.

“So, Teryl, you finally made it,” Sheila said in greeting as she and her assistant joined them. “Have a late night?”

“I overslept,” she replied unnecessarily.

“Overindulging can make you do that,” Simon responded, his tone mild, his expression smug. As if he knew—not suspected, but
knew
—what she had done last night.

For a brief moment Teryl met his gaze. Controlling a shiver of uneasiness, she evenly asked, “What makes you say that?”

“This is N’Awlins, darlin’,” he replied in a creditable imitation of a Cajun accent. “Overindulging is a way of life down
here.”

And had he learned
that
from a book? she wondered cynically.

“We’d better be going.” Sheila gestured toward the entrance, and her assistant left, most likely, Teryl thought, to
summon the limo right up to the door. After the woman disappeared, Sheila extended her hand. “At least you weren’t a problem,”
she said brusquely, giving Teryl’s hand a quick squeeze.

“From anyone else I would think that was rude,” Teryl said. “Coming from you, I’ll take it as a compliment. Have a good flight.
Simon.” She didn’t intend to shake hands with him, but he had other ideas.

Holding her hand firmly between both of his, he offered her a smooth smile. “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me. I’m sure I’ll be talking to you sometime.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be seeing me around. After all, I’m going to be famous.” He gave her a mocking smile, then lifted her
hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. When he released her a moment later, he walked away without a backward glance.

Teryl remained where she was, watching through the glass doors as the limo glided to a stop and the doorman hurried over to
open the rear door. His bearing imperious in spite of that damned silly tropical shirt and the rumpled pants, Simon climbed
in as if he were well accustomed to such luxury, then disappeared from sight behind the heavily tinted windows.

“It’s nothing that a bar of soap and some hot water won’t wash away.”

The voice came from behind her and sent a shiver of recognition up her spine before she turned around. Leaning against a pillar
there, hands shoved in his pockets and most definitely a sight to behold, was John.

She had a number of expectations regarding last night’s brief encounter: regret, embarrassment, guilt, even—the use of condoms
notwithstanding—a little worry about safe sex and pregnancy. But she hadn’t expected, after awaking alone, to see John again.

And she hadn’t expected such pure, simple pleasure at the sight of him.

She moved a few steps toward him before stopping. “What was that about a bar of soap?”

He nodded downward, and she followed his gaze to her hands. The fingers of her left hand were rubbing hard at the back of
her right hand, as if she could erase the fact of Simon’s kiss, as if she could wipe away the feel of his touch. Flushing,
she pushed her hands into her pockets. “I didn’t think…” That she would ever see him again. Obviously, she’d been wrong, she
thought, feeling again an intense rush of pleasure. Here he was, handsome, sexy, and waiting for
her
.

“So the great Tremont is on his way back to… Where is home these days?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it and smiled wryly. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“I figure it never hurts to ask. Sometimes you don’t get an answer, but sometimes…” The look he gave her left no doubt what
he was thinking as he softly finished, “Sometimes you get lucky.”

Like last night.
She
had sure as hell gotten lucky last night. She was flattered that he felt the same way.

Before she could find words to respond, he went on. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Sight-seeing.”

“Anything in particular you want to see?”

She answered with a shrug and a grin. “Everything I can cram into the next twelve hours or so.”

“Want an expert tour guide?”

Just as she’d done yesterday when he’d offered to accompany her to the Quarter, she hesitated, momentarily considering the
wisdom of going off with a stranger, and then, just as she’d done yesterday, she dismissed any reason for concern. After all,
after last night, he wasn’t exactly a stranger. Not anymore. “I’d like that, if you’re sure you can spare the time.”

“I have all day.” Moving away from the pillar, he came to stand in front of her, very close, and raised one hand to smooth
a tucked and pleated strap on her sundress that was already perfectly smooth. She knew the action was deliberate, allowing
him to touch her in a manner that was both circumspect and intimate, his intention to remind her of what
had passed between them last night. But she carried all the reminders she needed: the memories, the utter satisfaction, and
the stiffness of a well-used—and appreciative—body.

Resisting the urge to lay her hand over his, to guide it lower, to do something bold and brash and potentially embarrassing,
she cleared her throat and took one step back, placing a little breathing room between them. “I’d like the company,” she murmured.
“Just give me time to change, pack, and check out so I won’t have to come back later this morning.”

“Good idea. We’ll leave your bags in my truck; then I can take you straight to the airport when it’s time.”

She nodded her agreement; then, on impulse, she asked, “Do you want to come up to the room?”

For a time, he remained silent, his gaze directed at the murals high above the lobby. Finally, with an awkward glance, he
shook his head. “I’ll wait here.”

Nodding again, she gave him a regretful smile, then started toward the elevator. Before she turned away, though, she thought
she saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes. Real? she wondered. Or merely her own disappointment reflected back at her?

John watched until she stepped inside the elevator and the doors closed, blocking her from sight, and then he squeezed his
eyes shut and swore silently, viciously. Why hadn’t she turned down his offer to spend the day with her? Why was she making
this so easy for him? Last night should have taught her a lesson, should have taught her that he wasn’t to be trusted. He
had offered to show her the Quarter, but she’d seen little enough of it and all too much of him. If she were a sensible woman,
if she would let go for one moment of the image of New Orleans as an exotic, romantic adventure to be experienced to the fullest,
she would have told him thanks but no thanks and run the other way. Back home in Richmond, no doubt she was eminently sensible.
Here in New Orleans, no doubt she was living for the moment.

Before the morning was over, she was going to regret it.

When she had awakened alone this morning, she had thought she would never see him again. That was what she’d started to say
a moment ago:
I didn’t think
… It had been in her eyes, too expressive by far. She had thought that he’d gotten what he wanted—easy sex—and walked out
of her life. It would have been better for her if he had.

He’d left her last night for a number of reasons—so he could move from his hotel into hers, so he could have the peace and
privacy necessary to plan his next move, so he wouldn’t be distracted by the sweet temptation of her body, and so he could
surprise her this morning. Obviously, he had.

Just as she had surprised him.
Do you want to come up to the room?
Jesus, yes, he had wanted to go, still wanted to go. He wanted to lock the door behind them and pull back the curtains and
watch her undress in the warm morning light. He wanted to lay her down in the sunlight, wanted to bury himself inside her
as he had last night, only this time he wanted more than merely to feel. He wanted to see. He wanted to see her eyes widen
when he pushed into her, wanted to watch her nipples harden as he stroked them. He wanted to see her muscles quiver when he
moved inside her. He wanted to see her body grow tight and hard in that moment before she came, and he wanted to see it soften
afterward.

He wanted to make love to her again. And again. He wanted to forget all the reasons he was there—Simon Tremont,
Resurrection
, and all the other failures in his life—and simply lose himself in her again. He wanted, for the next few hours, to forget
about what he was and just be who he was: John Smith, a man with more sorrows than any woman deserved. A man who would give
up a good part of his soul for a little more pleasure in her body. A man who would give up a part of his life for a little
of the normalcy of hers.

The hell of it was, she would have let him. That shy little look of hers had been as much of an invitation as his blunt words
last night—
I want to take you to bed
. If he had accepted, she would have taken him to her room, would have taken him to her bed. She would have satisfied his
arousal and eased his hunger for intimacy.

But it would have been wrong. With the plans he had for her, making love to her now would be very wrong.

His muscles stiff and aching from tension he couldn’t control, he walked over to the entrance and gazed out at the street
beyond. It was crowded this morning as people went about their everyday routines. What was life like for them, for people
who worked regular jobs, who lived normal lives with families, responsibilities, and obligations? What was it like to be as
ordinary as the parking valet waiting outside the door, as conventional as the cop standing on the street corner?

There had been a time when he had been almost ordinary, almost conventional, when he had worked regular jobs for regular people—eight-hour
days, five-day weeks, and a paycheck twice a month. He had almost fit in with everyone else then, although he hadn’t had a
family, hadn’t had anyone depending on him for anything. What he remembered most from that time was the unhappiness. Dissatisfaction.
Being unable to find the things he’d wanted most out of life: escape. Peace. Redemption.

Now he had a highly successful career. He had more money than he could spend in a half dozen lifetimes. There were few constraints
on him—no time clocks, no money worries, no dealing with incompetent bosses or difficult coworkers.

And still no escape, no peace, no redemption. He hadn’t stopped craving them. But he
had
accepted that he would never have them. He had accepted his life as it was. And then someone—that man—had stolen it from
him.

With a sigh, he turned away from the doors and went back to the chair where he’d spent the last few hours waiting. He had
seen the man claiming to be him come off the elevator and disappear into the restaurant for breakfast. He had seen him come
out again less than an hour later, his entourage—minus Teryl—close on his heels. He had watched the man go upstairs, had waited
for him to come down again, and had studied him as he stood only a dozen feet and a bed of thick ferns away. He had listened,
catching most, though not all, of his conversation with Teryl.