Pain caught at her throat and shuddered through her chest. Pain and regret and longing.
She inserted her card key into its slot and opened the door-and checked, cold and tingling, as if she’d touched live electric wires. Roy was standing in front of the dressing table, struggling with his ascot. His eyes, blue and glaring, glanced off the mirror and collided with hers.
For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Then Celia was floating toward him, unaware of heartbeat or breath, the carpeted floor unfelt beneath her feet.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Here, let me help you with that,” she said. Her voice sounded sharp and bright in her ears, like the tinkle of wind chimes. She lifted her hands to the front of his shirt.
He made a sharp hissing sound, and his hands closed around her wrists. He stared down at her and his eyes seemed to smolder behind the blue contacts. “Don’t need your help.”
She stared back, unflinching. “Yes, you do.”
It was a standoff that could only end one way, given the circumstances. The moment and the tension stretched until they couldn’t anymore, until, with a harsh sound that was either anguish or anger-perhaps both-Roy lowered his mouth to hers.
There was violence and frustration, hunger and despair in the way he kissed her…in the way he crushed her to him…in the way she kissed him back-her hands clawed at his shoulders and clung to the back of his neck. Mouths opened…devoured. Teeth nipped and clashed…tongues dueled rather than mated. Breaths came in pants and whimpers, a primitive combat in which no words were spoken.
Undressing was a battle fought without regard for collateral damage, either to flesh or fabric. Fingers raked, buttons popped, seams ripped and in the end, the tattered remnants of the evening’s costumes lay strewn across the field of conflict like so many casualties of war. And even when they were both naked, the struggle continued. Hair was gathered and clutched in greedy handfuls. Teeth bruised and nails raked in ways that would leave marks for days to come but in those frantic moments went unnoticed.
He pushed her or she pulled him-impossible to tell-so that she tumbled backward onto the bed and he followed her down, and they wound up as one, already intertwined and straining to somehow get closer to each other yet, to crawl inside each other’s skin, if that were only possible. Panting, she made a place for him and her legs wrapped around him. She cried out as he plunged into her; her body arched and opened to him, urging him deeper…deeper. Clutching his shoulders with all her strength, she lifted herself to meet his mouth with a mindless, demanding hunger.
She had no awareness, no thought in her mind; she existed in a black void of need, of instinct that predated thought and overrode awareness. Wars could have raged all around her and she wouldn’t have cared; she cared only for the war within.
And war it was, although she couldn’t have defined the causes or combatants if her life had depended on it. She knew only that it was violent and devastating and terrible; when the explosions had ceased, she lay for a time, as survivors of wars do, in dazed stillness, before realization finally hit her and she covered her face with her hands and wept.
As she sobbed, she felt Roy’s arms folding warmly and gently around her, a hand stroking her hair, lips brushing wordless whispers across her forehead. She turned her face into the warm darkness below his ear and, shuddering, curled herself toward his hard, sinewy body, wishing she could somehow melt into it and simply…vanish. Never in her life had she felt so vulnerable…so utterly and completely exposed.
After a while, when her shaking and sobbing had quieted somewhat, she felt the chest beneath her cheek exhale a long, slow breath. “What a pair we are, eh?” Roy said in R. J. Cassidy’s hoarse whisper. She felt his chin bump her temple as he shook his head, then heard, in pure Georgian: “When it comes to you, I haven’t got a lick o’ willpower, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”
She lay quiet as understanding of what he’d just done came inside her like a warm and lovely fragrance. He’d known about her vulnerability. He’d known and had purposefully taken all responsibility for what had just happened onto himself. The sweetness of that was almost as devastating, in its way, as the violence that had come before, and new tears pooled warmly beneath her lashes as she said softly, “What am I gonna do with you?”
His lips touched her temple, along with a chuckle that was barely audible. Even so, she heard the pain in it and lifted her head to find his mouth with a soft kiss of acknowledgment and gratitude. Then he folded her once more into his arms and simply held her, stroking her…petting her, neither of them saying anything.
After a long while, though no words had passed between them, she turned her face up to his and he found her mouth and began to kiss her again, gently this time. Then, slowly, he deepened the kiss, and made love to her for a long, leisurely time, every touch unhurried and tender, sensual and erotic, until every cell in her body felt excited, exhilarated and alive, thankful that the darkness and devastation that had gone before had faded to an already half-forgotten memory.
Celia woke, disoriented, in semidarkness. The muscular chest that had been her pillow was heaving beneath her cheek, the once slow and steady heartbeat now quick and hard.
“What izzit?” she murmured sleepily as Roy eased her to one side and sat up.
“That’s what I’m tryin’ to figure out. Can’t you feel that? We’ve stopped.” He was on his feet, rummaging through the articles of clothing on the floor. He picked up something unidentifiable, stared at it, then tossed it aside and reached for the small overnighter that, still unpacked, held most of his clothes.
She watched him for a moment, propped on one elbow, then threw back the covers. Already half-dressed, he paused to throw her a look. “Where you going? Stay put. I’m just gonna go see what’s goin’ on.”
Celia rose to her feet, folded her arms on her chest and gave him a long, hard look. He looked back at her, opened his mouth, then closed it again. His shoulders sagged in surrender. “Okay, fine. Just…hurry it up.”
He dragged a hand through his hair and turned, preparing, Celia could tell, to pace with typical masculine impatience. She opened the closet-she’d unpacked
“It’s got to be on the other side,” Roy whispered as they hurried down the dimly lit passageway toward the main salon. From there, through the bank of windows that curved around the bow, they should be able to see most of the way along both sides of the yacht, though not, probably, all the way to the stern.
The salon was deserted, though, as elsewhere on the boat, lights had been left burning. Heart hammering, Celia paused to let Roy take the lead. She was close behind him as he stepped up to the windows, staying to one side behind the bank of open draperies.
“It’s a ship,” he whispered, shifting a little so she could look past him. “We’ve docked with it…they’re off- loading…something. Looks like we’re taking on cargo of some kind…”
Celia didn’t reply. Even with Roy’s warmth beside her she felt chilled as she watched the oceangoing ship’s huge dark shape rising and falling slowly only a few yards away, blotting out the stars…the flickering lights and shifting shadows going about their silent business.
“May I help you?”
The voice was quiet, courteous. Nevertheless, it sent a shock wave of adrenaline coursing through Celia’s body, and, she suspected, judging from the way the hand holding tightly to hers jerked at the sound, through Roy’s, too. Turning, she saw a man she recognized-one of Abby’s bodyguards-dressed now in casual slacks and a dark pullover. The salon’s warm, golden lamplight gleamed in his black hair.
“Uh, yeah, you could-” Roy began in a rasping voice, but Celia squeezed his hand hard, and her own voice, breathless and a little frightened, washed over his.
“Oh-yes! Please tell us-what’s going on? We-I couldn’t sleep, and I felt that we weren’t moving, and I thought…what’s happened? Is something wrong?”
The man’s teeth gleamed in the light. “Oh, no…nothing is wrong, I assure you. Far from it. We are simply taking on a few additional supplies. Nothing for you to be concerned about.”
“Supplies? What kind of supplies?” This, thankfully, was from a newcomer, as some of the other passengers had begun to wander into the salon, looking sleepy, disgruntled and curious, and not nearly as glamorous as they had the night before.
