Season of Strangers (21 page)

From what he could discover, Julie lived a conservative life. She earned far more than the average American, but she saved a good deal, and paid her bills on time. Because of its location on Malibu Beach, the house she had purchased was expensive, though in style it was fairly modest. The clothes she bought were tasteful, but not at the upper end of the scale.

Medically, she seemed healthy, rarely needing more than a yearly physical. Her checking account showed a good chunk of her earnings went to pay her sister's bills.

He had pages of information on her, but the fact remained: even with all the data he had collected, the tests they had run on subjects like Julie, and all his earthly observations, he could find no accounting for why Julie Ferris and a small percentage of others should have the mental wherewithal to resist their sophisticated brain examinations.

Val raked a hand through his wavy black hair, stood up and walked over to the window that faced out into the office. Down the hall, the object of his thoughts appeared, walking in through the back door as she usually did, without a wasted step, full of energy and purpose. But Val had a purpose of his own and he was determined to see it accomplished. He set his jaw and started for the door.

 

Julie saw him coming, his long legs eating up the distance between them. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark gray suit, a French-cuffed white shirt with his initials on the pocket, a gray and burgundy striped tie. He was the kind of man women noticed on the street, yet since his heart attack, his looks had taken on a different dimension. There was a solidness about him that wasn't there before, an air of command and purpose. He seemed wise beyond his years, filled with confidence and self-possession.

It made him infinitely more attractive.

It made Julie even more wary. She wanted to run for the door.

Patrick smiled as he approached her, softening the lines of his face. “I'm glad I caught you. How about lunch? There's a nice little Mandarin restaurant—”

“God, Patrick, don't you ever eat anything but Asian food? I'd think you'd get tired of it after a while.”

A black, well-formed eyebrow arched up. “How about The Grill? It's only across the street. We can eat and be back in an hour.”

“No thanks. I've got too much to do.” She started walking and this time he didn't stop her. She went out a couple of times on her usual appointments and errands, but whenever she came back in, he seemed to magically reappear. He asked her to join him for coffee, though she knew he'd been avoiding caffeine. He asked her to go for a drink after work, which she flatly refused.

At seven o'clock, she left the office, only to find him standing next to her car in the parking lot. His Porsche sat parked in the space beside it, the big engine growling and the door ajar.

Julie walked past them both. “Good night, Patrick,” she said as if he would simply disappear.

“Wrong.” He caught her arm, spun her around, and took a big step toward her. “I happen to know you don't have anything scheduled for this evening, which means you finally have time for me.”

“Now you're the one who's wrong. I don't have time for you—nor will I be able to fit you in at any time in the foreseeable future.”

A wolfish smile curved his lips. It was unlike any smile she had ever seen. “You aren't avoiding me this time, lady. You're going to hear what I have to say. You're coming back to my apartment where we can talk and no one will disturb us. You're going to get in my car and I'm going to drive you. If you don't, I'm going to haul you over my shoulder and put you in the car myself.”

Julie's mouth dropped open. Patrick had never spoken to her like this. She couldn't believe he was actually threatening her, but she could see very well he meant every word.

“Well?” he said ominously, taking a threatening step closer. “What's it going to be?”

Julie stiffened her shoulders. “Obviously, Patrick, if it means that much to you…” She started toward his Porsche, pulled open the door and slid into the seat, her nose stuck into the air. Patrick closed the door behind her.

Catching his satisfied expression, she almost got out again. Might have, but one look at the hard-edged, determined lines of his face, and the idea flew right out the window. Furious yet strangely intrigued that he would go to such lengths, she settled herself in the seat, waited for him to get in, and let him drive her away. A few minutes later they reached his apartment on Elm Street, just off Burton Way.

They rode the elevator to his penthouse in silence. Patrick unlocked the door and they walked in.

“How about a drink?” He shrugged out of his dark gray suit coat and tossed it over a chair then casually loosened his tie. “You look like you could use one.”

Julie glanced around, refusing to look at him. “I'll take a glass of white wine, if you have one.”

She hadn't been back to his apartment since their one disastrous date eight years ago. Julie studied the masculine tones of black and gray, the sculpted acrylic coffee table in front of the gray wool sofa, all accented tastefully by the bright splashes of color in the modern art on the walls. The room was furnished sparsely, yet the place had a surprisingly comfortable feel.

A fact that shouldn't have surprised her. Patrick had always had marvelous taste.

Which made her think of Felicia Salazar. She was frowning when he returned with a glass of white wine. His own stemmed crystal glass was filled with Perrier.

“Whatever you're thinking, it certainly looks unpleasant.”

She flashed him a tight, mocking smile. “Actually, I was thinking of your girlfriend, Felicia. I was admiring this room and your exquisite taste…in both decor and women.”

His expression looked almost amused. “I'm glad you like my apartment—and Felicia isn't my girlfriend. I don't think she ever was.”

“You don't think?”

“All right, I used to enjoy her in bed. As nearly as I can recall, we never shared anything else. I realized that the other night. I'm no longer interested in that sort of bonding.”

Bonding.
It seemed an odd choice of words. Julie toyed with the rim of her glass, running her finger around the edge as she sat down on the sofa. “Why am I here, Patrick? What exactly do you want?”

He took a seat beside her. Vivid blue eyes fixed on her face. “I think you know what I want. I think you want it, too.”

Julie said nothing. She was suddenly remembering the way he had kissed her that night on the deck above the sea. She could almost feel his hands on her breasts, the way his tongue had ringed her nipples. Inside her lacy white bra, they began to pucker and tighten.

“If you wanted me, then why did you leave?”

He studied her over the rim of his glass as if he needed time to choose his words. “Believe it or not, I was frightened.”

“You? Why on earth would you be frightened?”

He reached out and a long dark finger moved along her jaw. “I'm not certain exactly. It all seemed so unreal. I've never felt this way about a woman. I've never wanted a woman so badly. I know it's hard to believe, but it's the truth.”

Julie just stared at him. It couldn't be true. It could not possibly be.

“I know the kind of woman you are,” he continued. “I know the gift you offered came at a high price to you. I was frightened of what it might mean.”

Fear
. She had seen it that night in his eyes. As impossible as it seemed, Patrick was telling the truth.

“Making love to you meant I cared for you, Patrick. That I saw something in you I never saw in you before. I was beginning to believe in you. I was beginning to think you might actually have changed, that you might really have feelings for me.” She glanced away, a tight ache building in her throat. “When I saw you with Felicia I knew I'd made a mistake.” Tears threatened. She pressed her nails into the palm of her hand so she wouldn't start crying in front of him.

He turned her face with his hand. “I wasn't a mistake. I do care, Julie.”

“You don't have to lie, Patrick. I know the way you are…the way you always will be. I was a fool to believe you could change.”

Leaning forward, he pressed a soft kiss on her lips.

“I have changed. What you thought you saw was real. I didn't sleep with Felicia. I didn't want to. I discovered the only woman I want is you.”

Her throat constricted. She blinked and a tear slowly rolled down her cheek. She was afraid to believe him. She didn't dare. Yet she couldn't stop the hope from rising. “Do you mean it, Patrick?”

“I've never lied to you, Julie.” He lifted away the drop of wetness with a single long finger. “I want you, Julie. I have for a very long time.”

Julie shook her head. “Oh, God, Patrick, I'm so frightened.” The minute she said the words, his arms went around her, drawing her against him and holding her close.

“Don't be, Julie. Please don't be afraid.”

It felt so good to be held like this, wrapped in Patrick's arms, comforted by his solid strength. She felt protected, secure and, little by little, no longer afraid. She looked up at him, saw his eyes had turned a darker shade of blue. “I want you, too, Patrick. I need you so much.”

He kissed her then, a powerful, drugging kiss that said how much he desired her. There was tenderness there, in the soft stroke of his tongue, the gentle way he tasted the corners of her mouth. Then he was kissing her deeply, thoroughly, making the blood race through her veins and her stomach flutter and tighten.

Her skin tingled and her nipples puckered. He unbuttoned her blouse, slid his hand inside the cup of her lacy white bra, and began to massage her breasts. It closed in the front and he popped the hook with ease, lifted the heaviness into his palm, used his thumb to gently abrade her nipple.

“Patrick…” It was all she could think to say as he bent his dark head and took the fullness into his mouth, laving her then suckling gently. The other breast beckoned. He ministered to it and she arched her back, silently pleading for more.

“So beautiful,” he whispered, his tongue circling her nipple. He bit down gently and a shot of pleasure roared into her bloodstream. “I want so much to be inside you.”

Through the hot, wet haze of desire, she hardly noticed her clothes being stripped away, that she was naked and clinging to his neck. His own clothes followed a few minutes later: shirt, shoes, socks, and slacks, leaving him in snug dark burgundy briefs.

She drew away from him, wanting to see what he looked like. He was all suntanned skin and smooth rippling muscle. A thick furring of curly black hair covered the slabs of sinew on his chest.

Patrick reached for her, drew her against him and kissed her again, filling his hands with her breasts, driving his tongue into her mouth and sending damp heat into the core of her. She was wet and ready, restless and aching with desire for him.

His fingers circled her navel, slid lower, forged a path through the tight red curls at the juncture of her legs. He shifted on the sofa, and she noticed a tension in his body, a straining of the muscles across his chest. There was a difference in his touch now, what felt like a hint of uncertainty. Still, he threaded his fingers through the dark red curls above her sex, separated the plump slick folds with obvious pleasure, and sank a finger inside her.

Hot, fierce need, and spiraling warmth. Julie arched against his hand, her fingers biting into his shoulders. Her head fell back on the arm of the sofa and he kissed her so thoroughly she began to writhe against him. He trailed kisses along her throat and over her shoulders, kissed her breasts and her belly. All the while he stroked her, using his talented hands to make her arch and squirm.

“My God, Patrick,” she whispered, barely able to speak for the heat roaring through her.

The tension in his body seemed to ease. Naked now, he tore open a condom she didn't realize he had and took her mouth while he coaxed her legs apart and settled his body between them.

“Easy, love,” he whispered when she moaned. She had never let him call her one of his pet names, but it felt so right somehow, as if the name belonged only to her. He claimed her lips in a hungry kiss, laved her breasts, tugged on the ends, then started kissing her again.

She could feel his arousal pressing intimately between her legs and suddenly wished she had touched him there, acquainted herself with his solid male length. She arched her hips, expecting him to drive himself inside her, but he didn't move.

He was collecting himself, she realized, feeling the fine tremor that passed through him. He was becoming uncertain again, and the notion was so endearing she reached between their bodies, gripped him firmly, and guided him inside.

Patrick groaned and slid himself forward, burying himself so deeply she bit down on her bottom lip. He paused and she could hear his labored breathing, feel the thunderous roar of his heart. It was pounding as if it would tear through his chest. He made no further moves and suddenly a terrifying thought occurred.

“Patrick…dear God, are you all right? Your heart's not—”