Undercover Mistress

Chapter 13

Thought spiraled away into joyous light and heat and giddy, shivering excitement. His shirt hung open and her hands found the tight, hard muscle of his torso and she laughed with delight at the answering heat she could feel rising inside him…feel it burning through his skin and scalding her fingers. Daring in the darkness, she let the dress fall to the floor and leaned into him, pressing her palms against his ribs and her soft breasts against his hardness.

And felt him flinch. Heard him utter a sharp hissing sound, quickly silenced.

She jerked back, heart knocking sickeningly with frustrated wanting. “Oh God-your ribs-I’m so sorry-”

“Ssh…it’s okay…” His fingers rubbed their gentle and uniquely masculine abrasion over her back, from the base of her spine to her shoulder blades, sanding her from scalp to toes with goose bumps.

“But…your wound-I forgot-” She was shivering…bereft.

“Celia.” His hands lay heavy and comforting on her shoulders. He exhaled as he rested his forehead gently against hers. “Say g’night, Nurse Suzanne…”

Her suspended breath erupted in a single bubble of laughter, like uncorked champagne. “G’night,” she whispered, but still trembled as she eased back against him and tilted her face to find his mouth.

Relief and happiness and gratitude filled her; it had been harder than she’d expected, this throwing aside of pride and a lifetime of habit and expectation to ask for-no, demand-that which had always come almost as her due. To place so much trust in a man she knew so little had seemed to her a tremendous and terrifying gamble, and her awe at finding that trust vindicated now all but overwhelmed her.

I love you, she thought, knowing as she said it in her mind that in the long run it probably wasn’t true. Don’t make too big a thing of it, she warned herself. It’s probably only gratitude. But for that moment she allowed herself to believe it.

She believed it…because the sweet-hot demand of his mouth made her melt inside, and her legs go soft and trembly. She believed it…because the cool, silky feel of his hair on her skin made her want to cry. She believed it…because of all the times and all the ways she’d been touched, nothing before had ever made her feel so cherished.

His kisses were hot…slow…searing…almost more than she could bear. Laying her back on the bed with exquisite gentleness, he kissed her throat, her earlobes, the nape of her neck…not rushing, as if they had all the time in the world. And when she lifted her hands to the clasp of her necklace to give him clearer access, he smiled against her skin and murmured, “Leave ’em on. I’m gonna love you wearing nothin’ but diamonds…”

“They’re mostly topazes,” she whispered as he drew the last remaining scraps of her clothing away, her throat half-choked with wanting him.

“Okay…them, too.”

He touched her then, intimately…deeply and unhurried, watching her all the while with eyes so somber…mouth so tender…and a sweet dusky passion haze like velvet on his skin. She lifted her hands and filled them with the thick, silky textures of his hair…and tried to keep her eyes open because she wanted to watch him, too, while he touched her that way, the intensity of her desire building on the intensity in his gaze.

But that became too much…too quickly. No longer hers to control, her passion-weighted eyelids drifted shut. She arched into him, breathing in panting gasps. Her hands flowed like liquid over his skin…

His skin felt sleek and feverish to her, like the hide of some magnificent animal, his body hot and hard and vibrant beneath. I love your body, she thought, but couldn’t bring herself to say it. Because it was so much less than what she meant. And, she told herself, he’d probably heard it so many times before…

My God, you’re beautiful, he thought, but remembered not to say it as he gazed down at her face in the almost-darkness. Somehow he knew, though he couldn’t really see her, that her eyes had closed, that her mouth would be blurred and soft from his kisses…her skin rosy and misted with desire. But he realized as he looked at her that what was so beautiful to him wasn’t anything he could have seen with his eyes anyway, but rather, a picture of her he’d been carrying around in his mind for a while now. A picture that had no particular age or expression, that wore no special makeup or hairstyle-or perhaps it was a composite of all the ages, expressions and styles, not just of the Celia who was now, but all the Celias who had been or would be. In short, it was simply…Celia.

And he wondered when he’d stopped thinking of the woman in his arms as Celia Cross, TV star, extraordinarily beautiful woman, every man’s fantasy and way out of the reach of a simple Georgia boy-and when she’d become that…simply Celia.

Dazed and overwhelmed, he lowered his head and kissed her, and was just in time to capture her whimpered moan in his mouth. The sound punctured his heart like a lance, and he tore his mouth from hers and drew a quick, gasping breath. “Want me inside you now?” he asked her in his torn, devastated voice. “Celia…sweetheart…shall I love you now?”

Her reply caught in a high little laugh. “Oh-yes…please. I thought I was going to have to take desperate measures…”

Laughing, relieved, he nipped her lower lip, while his mind whirled with a strange effervescent happiness like a pinwheel shooting off sparks. “Such as?”

“Such as-” between words she lifted her head and took his mouth in hungry bites “-jumping on you and ravishing your body…”

“Aha…” He kissed her throat, then lifted his head to drawl tenderly, “And you think you could do that?”

“I thought-” her gasp, as he closed his mouth over one tight, hard nipple, delighted him “-in your weakened condition…”

“Weakened, am I?” He’d never felt stronger or more sure of himself. He lay back on the mattress like a Roman emperor being pleasured by handmaidens. “Then give it your best shot…” The words felt good mixed with laughter, vibrating deep inside, and he wondered if this was what cats felt like when they purred.

Then her hair and her laughter were flowing over his skin…along with her hands and her mouth, and the sharp, cool kiss of diamonds. And topazes…yes, them too. And he wondered if he was losing his sanity, and if there could possibly be such a thing as too much pleasure.

“Celia…” he murmured, cradling her head between his hands.

“Mmm…wait…” She lifted her head, leaving the moisture from her mouth to cool his heated skin. “I’m not done ravishing you yet…” She sounded like a sleepy lioness.

“Yeah…well, feel free to pick up where you left off another time. For right now…that’s about all the ravishing I can stand-if you know what I mean…”

She gave an ecstatic little gulp as he took hold of her under the arms, just below the soft pillows of her breasts, and ignoring sharp protests from his mending ribs, brought her up along his body, then in one swift motion rolled her over and under him. Rocking them both onto their sides, he swept his hand down her back, over her bottom and along the back of her thigh, and she hooked her legs around him and arched, panting, to make a place for him. She raised herself, reaching for him, whimpering. Her fingernails raked his back and her teeth nipped at his shoulders, her urgency only mirroring his.

But hot and hard and eager to be inside her as he was, somewhere in the back of his mind a voice was warning him to go slow…to be careful with her…that most likely it had been a while for her, too.

And somewhere else inside him was another voice whispering that maybe, just maybe…this moment might be one he’d like to hold on to, and remember.

So, he held himself back, entered her body slowly, drawing out the moment as long as he could, though it took all the self-control he had when every instinct wanted to plunge into her with jubilant abandon. The pleasure…the sensations…shivered through him like the prickling fire of Fourth of July sparklers. After the first shock of penetration, she gave a long sigh and began to move as he did, slowly, sinuously, opening to him by degrees, as if she understood how he was feeling, and maybe felt the same.

At some point-he didn’t know when-he’d laced his fingers through hers, and by the time he felt himself settled warm and deep inside her, his arms had begun to tremble with the strain of holding himself away from her. Now, dazed, he stared down at her face in the darkness and wanted to tell her how good she felt…how good he felt, joined with her that way.

Once again, he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t, because it hit him that he’d never before thought of sex that way-as a joining. And how that could be, when wasn’t that what the whole thing was about? Hadn’t he known that? Surely, he must have. Maybe he just hadn’t understood. Hadn’t felt it before. In his heart. Joining…two people coming together to make one.

The wonder of that filled his chest. He opened his mouth, but nothing but air came out.

“What?” Celia whispered, sounding breathless in the darkness and touchingly young.

“Nothing…” He lowered his head and kissed her mouth, then her forehead, moist with desire. “Just…you feel so good…”

She reached with her mouth to find his again. “So do you…”

Again, her body moved in perfect harmony with his, and he gave up trying to understand it…to make any sense of it at all.

Though, to say he gave himself up to what was happening inside him…well, that would have been like saying he’d given himself up to an avalanche. Because he didn’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter. The feelings just took him. Overwhelmed him. Buried him. And at the precise moment when he felt that tremendous power engulf him, he knew a moment of utter terror…then acceptance…and finally, peace.

Waking in the humid warmth of a shared bed, Celia knew first a purely hedonistic contentment…like a cat stretching languidly in a pool of sunshine.

That was followed by a lovely sensation of lightness, then a thought that struck her so sharply, so sweetly it was almost like pain: This is happiness. I…am happy.

Then, with a thoughtless, childlike anger: I want this always. I want this forever!

Raising herself on one elbow, she gazed down at the unguarded face of the man who still slept beside her. Her fingers tingled with a desire to touch him. Such strong bones he had, sparsely covered with flesh…he’d be magnificent, she thought, even when he was old. Rich dark hair, artificially frosted with silver…the newly straightened brows and the temporary scar she’d given him. His brutally altered nose. Jaws and chin rough with a night’s growth of beard…and oh, she was glad he’d talked her out of the goatee. It would have hidden his mouth…his wonderful mouth, that smiled so seldom and so wickedly. Like a pirate…

Her vision blurred, like watercolors in the rain. Thoughts and comparisons flew out of her head; there was only awe, and a love so intense it almost overwhelmed her.

I want this, she thought. I want him. Always and forever.

Maybe she’d trembled or given a start; maybe he felt the weight of her gaze…or her thoughts. In any case, the thick, dark lashes flew open. She caught her breath, and was momentarily disconcerted by the blue-eyed glare until she remembered he was still wearing his contacts. Until he surged upward, like a sea mammal surfacing for his first breath, to claim her mouth.

“Mmm…’morning,” she murmured huskily into the kiss, smiling at the unbearable sweetness, the impulsiveness of it.

“’Mornin’…” And his hand was already hooking around her neck, pushing under her hair as he pulled her down to him, and his mouth was opening under hers…hot and hungry…famished…

Desire twisted violently in her stomach, skated along her skin and began to throb in the part of her already swollen and sensitized to his touch. Dizzy with it, she thought fleetingly of things that would once have seemed important to her: What do I look like? Is my makeup smudged? Do I have morning breath? In the next moment, on a wave of stunning heat and joy and ardor, those thoughts simply vanished, along with others she probably should have remembered. Laughing and giddy, she followed him down into the tumble of pillows and flower-sprigged sheets, raining kisses on his cheeks and beard-roughened jaws, and down onto his neck and chin.

But when she would have carried her hungry forays even farther, to his chest and torso and belly and beyond, as she had the night before, he stopped her with a growl, and a guttural, “No, you don’t, darlin’-my turn now…” as he rolled her deftly onto her back.

Delightedly vanquished, she lay with her eyes closed while he trailed kisses across her throat and then her breasts, biting her lip to keep from whimpering, shivering and trying not to, her body wanting to arch with every touch, like a cat being petted. He kissed her nipples, first one then the other, and the sensation…unbearable pleasure…knifed through her. She drew up one knee and curled herself toward him, seeking him…her hands gathering in the silky thicket of his hair…urging him…begging him.

Answering her need, his head, and his mouth, moved lower, while his hand swept down across her belly to cup the hot, aching place between her thighs.

And something in her woke to a faint and distant cry…of warning…of dismay. Too late. She already felt his questing mouth, roving unrestrained, touch the numbed ridges of the scar on her abdomen.

Her hands clutched in his hair, her body spasmed inward, and panic burst from her in a single anguished cry. He lifted his head, brow furrowed. “What is it-did I hurt you?”

“No!” She could feel his hand on her belly, a heavy, aching weight. Squirming helplessly under it, she gasped, “Yes…I don’t want you to-please…don’t…”

Something in his eyes kindled…and burned. “You mean…this?” She could feel his fingers opening wide across her stomach, spreading warmth like healing balm. “Did you think I didn’t know about it?” As penetrating as his gaze was, his voice remained gentle…even wondering. “You told me, remember?”

“About the accident. But…you haven’t seen-”

“And you thought…what-I was gonna run screaming at the sight? Get turned off by it? That it?”

Too miserable even to nod, she lifted one arm to cover her eyes. Her face burned, though her body, except for the place where his hand was, burned with a cold sharper than ice.

“Celia-open your eyes. Look at me.” Now his voice was harsh…commanding; she wouldn’t have thought of disobeying it, though she wished she could have. Even through the ice-blue contact lenses, the hurt in his eyes stabbed at her, so fiercely she flinched. “Lady, I know you’ve got some strange ideas, but I’d have thought you’d have more trust in me than that.”

She held her breath, unable to reply because of the sob that waited shuddering just beneath the words. I’m sorry…

“Celia…” His voice softened as he lowered his head to lightly brush his lips across her stomach, then grew ragged as he lifted it to say it again: “Celia…” And then, “I’m going to touch you now, love. Don’t stop me. Don’t think about anything…”

He lowered his head once more. She felt his mouth on her belly. His tongue stroked her with liquid warmth. And as he did that, his hand was gliding up and down her legs with a touch both sure and gentle, relaxing her, easing her until her inner shaking ceased and she opened for him without thought.

His fingers moved over her delicate, heated flesh in the most intimate exploration…slowly and with exquisite care, sometimes a feathering touch that half maddened her…sometimes deeply, rhythmically, pushing…throbbing with the beat of her own pulse.

Her breathing unraveled in a series of gasps and mindless whimpers. And just before all thought left her and her body spiraled completely and deliriously out of her control, she heard him say, in a voice as smug and thick and sweet as syrup, “From now on when you think of your scars, I want you to remember this…”

Later that day, after Max had come and gone, Roy went with Celia for a walk on the beach. It wasn’t something he normally did-that particular beach had some less than pleasant associations for him-but on this occasion, for some reason, when he saw her heading out into the evening in her bare feet and jogging clothes, he felt a strange sort of yearning…a disquieting reluctance to be separated from her. A need-dangerous though it was, to be alone with her for the first time since breakfast that morning.

Roy had put in a call to Max before he’d even showered, knowing how much there was to do and only a week to do it in. It had been hard, coming straight from Celia’s bed, with the scent of her still in the pores of his skin and the taste of her in his mouth, to know what to say to the man who’d been his handler, mentor and friend, just about from the first day he’d joined the DHS. Guilt made him edgy; he was sure Max was gonna take one look at him and know.

And if not him, then Celia for sure.

Once again, though, he’d underestimated her. Or he’d forgotten how good an actress she was. By the time Max showed up, she was fresh out of the shower and looking about nineteen, with her cheeks scrubbed and her hair tied up in a ponytail, and that incredible body-of which his intimate knowledge gave him continuous guilty and haunting images-hidden away in its customary T-shirt and jogging pants camouflage. And if she seemed a little bit more than usually excited and keyed up, Max would most likely put that down to the obvious fact that the operation was heating up-looked, in fact, to be heading for its conclusion, whatever that might be.

Which was a thought that gave Roy cold chills. For a whole lot of reasons.

In any case, after the briefing in Celia’s living room, the only comment Max had made as he’d taken his leave was a stern and cryptic, “Stay focused, you two.”

Which, Roy told himself, could mean just about anything.

Stay focused. Which went without saying. And was easier said than done.

It wasn’t that late by the time Max left, though at that time of year it seemed the day was already almost gone. Only a few days past winter solstice, the twilight would come early. Still, the air was unusually balmy, thanks to the mild Santa Ana that had been blowing all day. The sunset promised to be spectacular. A nice evening for a walk on the beach.

Especially since, walking on the beach at sunset, it was easier to pretend things hadn’t just drastically changed between them. Easier to avoid saying things that had to be said.

Though even the most difficult things couldn’t be avoided forever.

“It’s going to be a beautiful sunset,” Celia said, as they paused to watch waves break against a jagged ridge of volcanic rock. Her voice had a kind of tightness to it that told him she’d most likely been wanting to break the silence, but hadn’t known how, and had finally given up hoping he’d do it for her.

“Yeah,” Roy said dryly, “it’s because of all that air pollution the Santa Ana wind just blew out there.”

She laughed and threw him a crooked smile. “You’re in a romantic mood.”

“Got a lot on my mind.” He said it gently, because he’d heard vulnerability in her voice, too.

“Yeah, me too.”

There was silence, then, while he struggled with the temptation to simply let it go, knowing she must be doing the same. Then a stray puff of wind carried her scent to him, and he was hit with a wave of memory so powerful he had to catch his breath. The taste, touch, and feel of her…images, the way she’d looked this morning, so vulnerable, so frightened…and flushed with desire for him, too…

He couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened when it was in his mind every waking moment. Couldn’t let it happen again no matter how much he wanted to. How much they both wanted to.

“About last night-” They both began at the same time, then broke off with uneasy laughter.

To give them both time to rebuild defenses, Roy bent down, picked up a piece of driftwood and hurled it into the surf. Aiming a wry grin at the brilliant horizon, he said, “Yeah, that’s definitely one of the things on my mind.”

He glanced over at her, but she, too, seemed to find the western horizon intensely fascinating. Her expression seemed thoughtful. Or guarded, he thought.

It occurred to him then that no matter how good an actress she was, there were times he was starting to be able to read her. Times when he could tell what was real and what wasn’t. He never doubted last night had been as…he tried to think of a word for it, but the only thing he could come up with was real. As real for her as for him. And as certain as he was of that, he was just as sure right now that she was going to use all her acting skills to try to keep him from knowing that.

She’s in love with me, he thought. Or thinks she is.

Which made it that much harder for him. If she believed it, it would be too easy to let himself believe it, too.

And if he did believe it? Where did that leave him? Given his lifestyle, the choices he’d made? Loving someone-really loving-knowing they loved you back, belonging to someone, making a life together…joining. Being responsible for-and to-someone…

He gave his head one hard shake. No way. Not for him. It just didn’t compute.

But there was last night. This morning. How in the hell was he supposed to make himself forget about that?

He took a breath, stared at a retreating wave near his feet and said gruffly, “What Max said…”

Her own quick intake of breath interrupted him, as she rushed to be the first to say it and he paused to let her. “Yeah. I know. He’s right. What were we thinking?”

He looked at her and she looked back at him, the question she’d asked lying unanswered between them. But though her face…her eyes…seemed outwardly composed…even serene, with his newfound ability to read her he found the signs easily enough: the bruised, transparent look of the skin beneath her eyes…the blurred softness of her mouth. She’s in pain, he thought. I know. I can feel it.

Then, he thought, who the hell am I kidding? That’s not her pain I’m feeling. It’s mine. I’m hurtin’, too, dammit. I guess we both are.

He swallowed, and even that hurt. “Bad idea,” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” she said, “bad idea.”

Then they simply looked at each other in helpless silence, and in the faraway calling of the gulls he heard aching denial, and the question they couldn’t bring themselves to ask: Why? Why is it so bad when it feels so good?

“Not so much a bad idea, as bad timing,” Roy answered it gruffly. Regret, because he couldn’t give the answer they both wanted so much, made his voice harsh. “We’ve got no business getting…you know, emotionally involved. Not in the middle of an operation. Not with God knows how many lives at stake. Like Max said-gotta stay focused.”

“I know…” She said it on an exhalation and turned her face to the setting sun, not before he caught the tiny spasm of pain that shivered through those delicate tissues around her eyes.

She reached up, and with a swift, almost violent motion, pulled away the elastic band that held her hair in its ponytail, then gave her head a shake that tumbled her hair into the wind.

Watching her do that-face lifted to the sun, and her fingers scrubbing that Santa Ana wind into her hair-made Roy think of a song from his childhood; his momma had been a big fan of Broadway musicals, so he’d been a captive audience for probably every Rodgers and Hammerstein movie ever made. Right then he was thinking of “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair.”

Which was maybe why, when she turned to walk on again, he didn’t take her hand, although the impulse to do so was a powerful ache inside him.

After a few minutes of watching her bare feet make prints in the wet sand, she caught a quick, lifting breath and said, “Do you think maybe…” He glanced at her, waiting for the rest, but she looked away and shook her head, smiling a little.

He was pretty sure he knew what she’d almost asked. Do you think maybe…after this is over?

He knew, too, why she hadn’t finished it. Neither of them dared to think that far ahead.

Drawing a breath to quell the queasiness in his stomach, Roy said with false brightness, “So-what’s on our agenda for Christmas?”

Celia squinted at him, shading her eyes with her hand against the setting sun. “We were going to party-hop. We’ve got several different invitations. But now I’m thinking-” she shrugged “-you know, what’s the point?”

“Yeah…” They’d accomplished their purpose; that part of the job was done. He watched his feet for a few steps, then glanced over at her. “So…you don’t much feel like partyin’, is that what you’re sayin’?”

“Not really,” she said warily. “Do you?”

He gave a dismal huff of laughter. “Hell, no.”

Fact was, he’d never felt less like partyin’ in his whole life. He’d never felt less like Christmas, either. What he did feel was heavy and dull and sad. He’d never been much of one for moods-sure as hell couldn’t recall ever having been depressed before. He wondered if this was what depressed felt like. Because if it was, he could kind of understand why people made such a big deal about it.

“Then let’s stay home.” There was a gay lilt in her voice that, though masterfully done, didn’t fool him. After a little pause just for effect, she added slyly, “I’ll cook dinner.”

Because he knew she wanted him to, because she was trying so hard, Roy laughed, rolled his eyes, groaned and said, “Oh, my Lord, save us…” in his very best Southern drawl.