Part 6 (1/2)
Instead he went to the desk, set down the empty tumbler, and pulled a piece of hotel stationery from the drawer. Time to exorcise some demons, he told himself.
Randy woke to the moist languor of mid-morning, the slow whir of ceiling fans and the soft screech of a jungle bird. As the sounds penetrated her consciousness, she remembered where she was: Rio de Janeiro ... the River of January, with its exotic rain forests, miles of white crescent beaches, and steamy tropical nights.
Images of Rio were filtering through her awareness like a travel brochure as she opened her eyes and realized she was exactly where she'd fallen asleep, curled up around the pillow, still wearing her teddy. She'd never put on a nightgown or turned down the bed covers.
Sheened in perspiration, slowed by the weight of the moist heat that enveloped her, she untangled herself from the pillow and pushed up to a sitting position. Someone had opened the French doors to the balcony off her bedroom, she realized. She glanced in confusion at the door to her room, which was still locked. A hotel maid? How did she get in?
A brilliant orange and turquoise macaw was perched on the balcony's white wrought-iron railings, gazing at her with unblinking eyes. As she stared back at the magnificent bird, uncertain that it was real, a garland of yellow b.u.t.terflies flitted by. The travel brochures were right, she thought. This was paradise. Pots of exotic orchids dotted the balcony, and the breezes that wafted into the room were so heavy with their perfume, they seemed tinted a blush pink like the flowers.
She rolled her neck slowly, feeling logy and stiff, as if she'd been doing something she shouldn't have the night before. It must have been the macaw's cry that woke her up, but otherwise she seemed to be alone. As she slid around to get off the bed, she noticed something lying on the bed's other pillow ... a pen and ink sketch.
She was almost afraid to pick it up. From her vantage point it looked suspiciously like a drawing of a man and a woman in some kind of erotic ecstasy, and she knew who the artist must be. Her heart began to pound as she angled nearer, trying to see what it was without actually touching it, as if she could somehow make the images less disturbing that way. Finally she gave in to her feverish curiosity and picked the paper up.
Her mouth went dry as she stared at the drawing. He'd captured the raw, forbidden intimacy of their night together with a few graceful, slas.h.i.+ng strokes of his pen. She was fully clothed in the picture, but the sweetheart sleeves of her wedding dress had dropped off her shoulders, baring one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s for all the world to see. Worse, she was sitting on Geoff's lap, facing him, straddling him, just as she had on the bike. Her head was thrown back, her spine arched in swooning ecstasy as he slid his hand up her skirt.
It wasn't clear whether they were intimately joined, but it was crystal clear that she was a consenting adult to whatever they were doing. More than consenting, she looked like a woman in the throes of rapture-eager, wanton, drugged with pa.s.sion. And he looked like a man totally confident of his s.e.xual power over her.
The sketch brought back vivid memories, and such sharp sensations of physical pleasure that Randy could hardly catch her breath. She hated admitting even to herself that he'd brought her to such a fever pitch of desire. And it humiliated her to remember how shamelessly she'd behaved with him.
How dare he draw what they'd done? He was invading her privacy, exposing her. She knew she was being foolish. It made no sense allowing herself to feel hurt or betrayed by a man who probably practiced seduction with the same dedication that a preacher practiced religion. But she did feel hurt. She couldn't help herself.
She told herself to throw the picture away, but for some reason she couldn't do it. Her wrist locked and her fingers began to shake as she gathered the paper together to crush it. Instead, she slammed the stationery face down and covered it with the pillow, as if she could make it disappear or smother the writhing carnal energy out of it.
She left the bed and walked to the French doors, aware of the suns.h.i.+ne pouring over her like honey from a pitcher as she stepped out onto the balcony. She should have felt warm, but she didn't. There were too many conflicting emotions tangled up inside her. She had no idea how to deal with the problem of Geoff Dias, but she had to find a way. This couldn't go on any longer. She had to confront him. Harder still, she had to confront her feelings for him.
Once she'd showered and dressed, she found him on the penthouse terrace having breakfast. He'd changed from fatigue pants to faded khaki shorts and a ribbed cotton tank top, and his legs were long and tanned and dusted with golden hair. The table he sat at was facing the horizon, a stunning, seamless backdrop of dense blue sky and equally blue water.
He was staring out to sea, and Randy was hesitant to disturb his meditation. He looked absorbed in his thoughts, almost peaceful. Sunlight filtered through the palmeira that shaded him, catching errant tendrils of his hair as the breezes lifted them. It gilded the long strands like spun gold, making him seem almost ethereal, a G.o.d at rest, the artist in a moment of contemplation.
The table next to him was set with a sterling silver coffee service and a platter of crusty rolls and sticky, pecan-studded buns. Another large platter held rainbow tiers of the fruits of the country, including wedges of melon, mango, deep-red papaya, and a heap of luscious Brazilian figs.
The air was balmy warm and the scene so bucolic. Randy felt almost mollified, as if Mother Nature herself was cautioning her, ”Don't worry, be happy.” No wonder people loved the tropics, she thought. The weather lulled you into abandoning your concerns-along with your inhibitions. However, as much as she wanted to sit down, eat a mango, and relax, she had to talk with him. She had to lay down the law.
He glanced up at her as she approached, a sidelong look that said he'd been expecting her. His green eyes s.h.i.+mmered with antic.i.p.ation.
She held the picture up for him to see, but kept it just out of his reach, as if too close a look might t.i.tillate him. She didn't want to remind him of what he'd drawn-or what they'd done. ”I consider this a gross violation of my privacy,” she said with no preamble whatsoever.
”Sit down,” he invited, motioning to the wrought-iron chair across from him. ”Have some coffee. It's Brazilian, strong enough to pour itself.”
She remained standing, unyielding. ”How did you get in my room?”
In no particular hurry, he took a drink of his cafezinho, a tiny cup of sweetened black coffee, then tore off a yeasty section of sweet roll and ate it. ”Locked doors are my business,” he said finally.
”Then tonight I'll barricade it.”
”Don't waste your time. Randy. You could lock yourself in a bank vault, and it wouldn't stop me, not if I wanted to get in.”
”Really?” Her voice was inching toward shrillness. ”I never knew you were so talented. An artist, a safecracker-what else?”
His quick smile held a s.e.xy warning. You haven't seen anything yet, it said. He checked out her outfit, hesitating on the halter top of her sundress as if he were waiting for her to swoon, arch her back, and pop out a breast so he could draw another picture.
Impulsively, Randy held out the sketch, crushed it in her fist, and dropped the wad of paper on the table.
His smile faded, which pleased her immensely.
”We have to talk.” She pulled a chair out from the table and seated herself, her heart creating a terrible uproar. Her rigid stance warned him not to push her any further. But what would she do if he did? Every confrontation with him was freighted with risk. She could spar with him verbally, but she was no match for him in any other way.
He simply settled back, folded his arms, and gazed at her. ”By all means. Talk. Amaze me some more.”
She felt a stab of pain near her ear and realized she must be clenching her jaw. She was sure to have a headache before this was over with. ”If you'll remember, I made up a list of house rules-”
”I do remember. They specified no physical contact, but they didn't say anything about drawing pictures.”
”Would it have made any difference if they had?”
”Probably not.”
”Geoff, this has got to stop-”
”I like that,” he said softly. ”I like it when you say my name. I don't think I've ever heard you say it before.”
He sounded grainy voiced and slightly surprised. The curiosity in his expression made him seem sincere. Randy felt a softening inside, a loosening of tight muscles and tighter inhibitions. She fought to control the reaction, aware that it was easier dealing with him when he was being perverse. When he was civil, or G.o.d forbid, nice, she didn't know how to defend herself.
”You may not hear me say it again,” she told him, determined to be tough. ”If you don't agree to my rules, it's over. The deal's off. I'll find Hugh without you.”
”Never going to happen,” he warned.
”You won't agree to the rules?”
”No-you'll never find Hugh.”
”And you'll never get what you want.”
”Which is?”
She hesitated, nearly light-headed from the way her pulse was racing. ”A night. One night ... with me.”
The slow lift of his chin betrayed his surprise. ”A repeat performance?” he said. ”You and me?”
”Yes.” She'd played the wild card, her only bargaining chip with him. She hated having to resort to such a desperate tactic, feeling as if she were going against everything she believed in about honesty, and personal ethics-but she had no other options left. If Geoff thought they were going to make love at a later point, perhaps he would leave her alone for now, and they could both concentrate on finding Hugh. She was counting on that being the case, and she needed the time it would buy her. When they found Hugh ... well, she would deal with that problem when the time came.
He tapped the porcelain coffee cup with his forefinger. ”Since you put it that way,” he said, glancing up at her through lowered lashes.
”You agree, then?”
He shrugged, a gesture of surrender. ”Do with me what you will. I'm yours to command.”