Part 2 (1/2)

My c.o.c.k, which has been hard since she walked out onto the gallery, jerks. I s.h.i.+ft in my seat, suddenly fighting for control.

She opens her eyes, looks straight at me, and smiles. ”More?”

Oh, yeah, baby, definitely more.

She gets all the steak, every little morsel of it along with most of the cabernet that I give her in small sips from my gla.s.s. In return, I get to watch her. That's enough for the moment, if only barely.

I've never seen a woman do better justice to a meal. The little sounds of delight that I don't think she even knows she makes are uncannily like the run up to o.r.g.a.s.m. I'm having trouble breathing when, with a last lick of her lips, she sighs in contentment and sits back.

”That was so good,” she says.

My mind is staggering from her natural eroticism to the fact that I'm never going to be able to look at another steak without getting a hard on.

”Dessert?” I ask.

Her eyes widen as she suddenly seems to remember herself. Staring at me, she turns red. Not a delicate blush but the real deal that flows down her slender throat and all the way to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Through the fabric, I can see her nipples harden.

Apparently, I've pushed a b.u.t.ton but how exactly? Purely in the interest of scientific inquiry, I sit back and study her.

”A fruit tart perhaps,” I suggest. ”Filled with big, ripe raspberries brushed with apricot glaze? Or a creme brlee, so smooth and creamy that it slips right over the tongue and down the throat?”

She squirms in the chair and shakes her head.

Undeterred, I persevere, grinning. ”Perhaps a cannoli? Or we could share a banana split.”

She looks so d.a.m.n delicious. I lean forward a little, holding her gaze. My voice drops a notch. ”With a s.h.i.+ny round cherry on top? You know the kind I mean, drenched in thick, sweet syrup?”

That last bit seems to push her over the edge. She breaks eye contact and takes several deep, ragged breaths. Softly, she says, ”Thank you but I'm really quite full.”

The devil who's sitting comfortably in his usual perch on one of my shoulders launches a laser missile at the angel whose got barely a toe hold on the other, effectively vaporizing it. Not even a feather is left.

I stand and hold out my hand. ”In that case, let's take a walk.”

Chapter Four.

Amelia What is wrong with me? I should be focused on making it clear to him that I'm not some helpless female to be kept in ignorance and ordered about at his beck and call. Instead, I'm a slave to my own appet.i.tes. Not only did I eat all his dinner--allowing him to feed it to me no less--but I lied when I told him that I was full.

A hot, churning emptiness has been growing in me since I stepped out onto the gallery and saw him again. No food, however amazing, can slake that.

The memory of his fingers against my lips, the taste of him mingling with the lightly salted flavor of the steak, threatens to overwhelm me. I have a sudden image of myself succ.u.mbing to temptation, drawing those fingers into my mouth and sucking on them, his amber gaze darkening as I do so.

A tremor races through me. I am on the brink of something I can sense but not yet understand.

I should be focused on the matters that really concern me--who I am, why I am there, why I was asleep for so long, not to mention what is going to happen to me. Instead, all I am able to think of is Ian. With every breath I take, I am acutely aware of him.

In a desperate bid for distraction, I look around the garden and beyond. Clouds streak the blue-black sky directly overhead. A storm is moving in but I can still see the silver arch of the Milky Way spanning from north to south.

”We're in North America, aren't we?” I say. ”Somewhere in New England?”

Once again, I seem to have surprised him. ”How do you know that?” he asks.

”The stars.” I nod to the east where Orion hangs beneath the bright beacon of Betelgeuse. Later, I can wonder why I have at least some knowledge of astronomy. For the moment, I just accept it.

We are approaching the small pavilion where I awoke. The floating bed sways in a sultry breeze that carries a hint of the tropics. Far off to the south, lightning flashes.

Ian pauses, one hand still firmly holding mine, and with the other gestures toward the dark expanse of forest and mountains beyond.

”We're in upstate New York, about two hundred miles north of Manhattan,” he says.

I recognize the name of the island enclave that is home to the world's elite and those who serve them, a city equally of soaring gla.s.s towers and heights of privilege unimaginable to the vast majority of people who are kept well away from it.

Manhattan and the handful of other places like it are where the business of the world is done. All the rest--parliaments and congresses, the media, even the ritual of elections--are a distant second. If I have ever been there, I don't know it.

”Do you live there as well?” I ask.

He looks down at me, his eyes inscrutable in the darkness that surrounds us. ”I keep an apartment in the firm's Manhattan headquarters. When I'm not travelling, I'm usually there.”

”But not now?”

He hesitates a moment before he says, ”I thought you would be more comfortable here.” His tone turns rueful. ”Now I'm wondering if I was right. You aren't at all what I expected.”

Before I can ask what he means, he brushes a finger over my lips, a feathery touch but commanding all the same. ”No more questions, not tonight.”

My breath quickens. His gaze is so intense! For a moment he looks not quite so formidable, more young and even a little confused.

That vanishes as he moves the hand he still holds behind my back and joins it to my other. His fingers curl around both my wrists, securing them. His other hand grasps my hip, drawing me to him. I am suddenly, vividly aware of how aroused he is.

And of the effect that has on me. I do...do not...do...want this, want him, want...

”Don't,” I murmur but it comes out as little more than a moan.

He stands perfectly still except for his hands. They both entwine with mine, our fingers mes.h.i.+ng. There is something in this, some combination of his dominance and our mutual need, that draws a carnal response from me. To my embarra.s.sment, my hips begin to sway, rotating against him.

He makes a guttural sound and without breaking the contact between us, bends me backward so that my throat is bared to him.

”Ian...” His name is a sigh, a whisper in the dark, a prayer. I want...the caress of his lips, the sharp quick pain of his teeth, the heat of his breath marking me. Want, becoming desire, threatening to ignite a wildfire reflected in the searing heat of his gaze.

The first rumble of thunder comes over the mountains. A few steps from us, the floating bed sways again in the night breeze. He thrusts a muscled thigh between my own and pulls me upright so that I am crushed against him, our mouths almost touching, our bodies-- Suddenly, his features tighten, his mouth narrowing to a hard line. As though the admission is dragged from him, he says, ”This is insane. I don't lose control like this, not ever.”

Without warning, his hold on my wrists turns punitive. I cry out and in the next instant am free. He walks a short distance away, thrusts both his hands through his hair in a gesture of... Frustration? Disgust? Anger? At me? At himself.

He turns to look at me where I stand, panting more than breathing.

My eyes flit to the bed. For an instant, I see us entwined there, his far larger and more powerful body arching over mine, driving into me, both of us lost in the pounding rhythm of-- He follows the direction of my gaze and his body flexes, as though drawn into my own vision of us, helpless to deny me.