"Kiss me, Anthony," she said softly. "Find out how you taste in my mouth."

He gazed at her in wonder, mesmerized by the utter sensuality emanating from her every pore, the look in her eyes drawing him to her like a magnet. Slowly, he leaned over and resting his arm across the back of her chair, above her head, kissed her almost reverently. If he lived a thousand years, he would never meet another like her and he adored her, worshipped her from the core of his being.

He kissed her long and slow, loving the slight flavor of himself still on her tongue, and then laid his cheek on her chest, just above the soft swell of her breast. She dipped her head and dropped a tender kiss on the back of his neck, then laid her head against the back of the chair again. She stirred restlessly at the touch of his mouth on her skin.

He began to caress her thigh with his other hand and reached up under the short black skirt she was wearing. Her breath hissed out in staccato bursts as he began stroking her s.e.x. A heated desire overtook him and he dipped his head lower, nuzzled inside her blouse, and took her breast into his mouth. A kind of frantic wanting razed them like wildfire and she writhed as he sucked her nipples and f.u.c.ked her with his fingers.

She buried her face in his hair, her arms tight around him, stifling her cries as he created havoc inside her body with his mouth and hands, shooting carnal messages crazily back and forth between the two erotic zones.

He could feel her on the verge, and more than anything at that moment, he wanted to see her face when she came. Relinquishing her breast and his intense enjoyment of her tender flesh with its little bud that filled his mouth so perfectly, he raised his head to look into her face. Her eyes were closed, her face contorted, straining with her impending o.r.g.a.s.m.

"Open your eyes," he whispered to her urgently. "I want to see them when you come."

"I...can't!" she ground out.

"Yes, you can," he insisted, with such fierce urgency that her eyelids swept up heavily and his breath caught in his throat.

Pa.s.sion had turned her eyes to a silvery jade, giving her a near feral look. He continued to f.u.c.k her, sweeter now, using his forefinger and his long middle finger to reach deep inside with compelling strokes. Her fluids bathed his fingers copiously, alerting him that she was on the verge of coming.. He swept his thumb over her sensitive mound and played with her bud, stimulating her so acutely that it forced a poignant cry from her throat. Her lids swooped down again, becoming too heavy as she strained against his fingers, and he covered her mouth with his, swallowing the cry emanating from her throat as her o.r.g.a.s.m spilled down his hand.

He stayed like that until he felt her caress his hair. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. They were peaceful, the pupils that had magnified before the storm beginning to return to normal. He withdrew his hand from under her skirt and she immediately took it and slipped the fingers that had been inside her into her mouth.

"I want to find out how I taste in your mouth," she told him.

"Well, you're going about it all wrong," he said. He put his fingers in his mouth, licked them thoroughly, and then gave her a lingering kiss. The furthest thing from his mind was the Times.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

The following morning he awoke feeling uneasy. Something had awakened him, and almost immediately he knew what it was. He was alone in bed. She was gone. He lay still for a moment, listening to the quiet, struggling against a feeling of dread. Feeling strangely disembodied, as though he had ceased to be in some way, he threw back the covers, walked to the closet, and opened it. Relief flooded him, and he let out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. Her things were still there. She hadn't left.

Pulling on his dressing gown, he left the bedroom and walked down the hall, glancing quickly into all the rooms before descending the stairs. A quick check downstairs confirmed she was nowhere in the house. She must have stepped out for something. He switched on the coffeemaker, went into the study, and stood in front of the window, looking down the street. When the aroma of coffee wafted in, he went back into the kitchen, poured himself a cup, and sat at the kitchen table to drink it.

He heard the key being inserted into the door and then her quick footsteps as she came in, closed the door behind her, and walked into the kitchen, pulling off her wool mitts. She came up to him, leaned against him and dropped a kiss on his head.

"Did you miss me?" she asked. "I felt like going for a run, but I didn't want to wake you. Mmm, that smells good," she said.

He held the cup up to her lips and she took a sip. "I didn't know you were a runner," he said. "Where do you run?"

"This morning just in the park for a bit. I'm not really a runner. I just run now and then when I'm in the mood or when I've been cooped up too long."

"Is that how you felt this weekend, cooped up?"

"Nope. G.o.d, I'm hot." She whipped the sweatband off her head, unzipped the jacket of her tracksuit, and hung it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

His eyes fastened on the outline of her nipples through her spandex tank top. She released her hair from its ponytail, fluffing and aerating it with her fingers. The movement jutted her b.r.e.a.s.t.s out, and he forgot about his coffee as he sat there, lost in contemplation of her outlined nipples, her rosy cheeks, her reddened nose, and the sweat stains on her tank top. Thinking of where else she might be sweaty turned him on.

"Your coffee's getting cold," she teased.

He blushed, knowing she had probably read his mind.

"An overactive imagination can kill ya," she said, putting her head to one side and regarding him with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"At least I'll die happy." He grinned back.

"Does that mean you don't need what I was thinking of giving you?"

"I don't know. What were you thinking of giving me?"

"Use your imagination," she said mischievously. "I'm going up to take a shower."

He watched her smilingly as she ran lightly up the stairs, then picked up his coffee and went into the study. He turned on the computer to see if he had any messages before he left for the office.

About fifteen minutes later he went upstairs. He entered the bathroom and stopped short, watching her faint outline through the steamed-up gla.s.s shower doors. Her back was turned to the shower, and she was standing there, her head thrown back, letting the spray hit the back of her head. She turned off the shower, and as the steam began to clear, he saw her bend over and upend her hair. She took hold of it and twisted it, squeezing out the excess water. Then she straightened up, flipping her hair back, and slid the door open. She stopped short when she saw him standing in the doorway, then took a towel and wrapped it around her, tucking the end in between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Your turn," she said, walking over to the door. She ruffled his hair as she pa.s.sed and went into the bedroom.

He walked over to the sink and began to shave, his eyes on his reflection in the mirror, feeling a little bit shaken at how deeply he craved this intimacy with her, being surrounded by her femininity, watching her do all those little things that made her so intensely female, sharing a bed, a bathroom, a house with her. He dreaded the day when his six months with her would be up.

His secretary had scheduled several meetings that kept him occupied for most of the day. Around three o'clock she entered his office with a large envelope, which she indicated had been hand delivered. He had been expecting it. The full report from the agency he had hired to track Nicola. He debated delaying reading it until after his last meeting, scheduled for three thirty, but curiosity got the better of him.

He slit the envelope open and pulled out the contents-a cover letter and two typed pages. He skimmed it. Most of it he already knew from their interim reports. The last paragraph of the second page chilled him. When the initial shock had pa.s.sed, he got up precipitately, anger and jealousy raging through him. He reached for his briefcase, threw the report inside, and snapped it shut. He put on his coat and walked out the door.

"Don't forget your three thirty," his secretary called out, observing his agitation. She watched him, her expression concerned as he stalked past her desk.

"Cancel it," he snapped.

Chapter Thirty.

He let himself in the house quietly, hung his coat in the closet, and walked into the study. She was lying on the couch asleep. He studied her face as she slept, her thick lashes like sooty crescents, her mouth slightly open, a hand curled under her cheek. She looked so innocent, so untouched. He felt completely taken in by her, and pain knifed him at the thought that he wasn't the only one. He shook her by the shoulder, almost roughly. Her eyes flew open, widening in pleased surprise when she saw him.

"Sit up," he said gruffly, before she could say anything. "I have to talk to you."

She sat up and put her feet on the floor. She pushed her hair away from her face, looking puzzled. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Tell me about the seven million dollars," he said abruptly.

She looked at him blankly. "The seven million dollars?"

"Yes," he said, his voice hard. "The money you used to pay off your loan in Jamaica. Where did it come from?"

She stared at him, her face still blank, and then he saw her expression begin to change.

"How did you know about that?" she asked him, curiosity and disbelief warring on her face with the stirrings of anger.

"Never mind how. Just tell me."

"You've paid someone to spy on me, haven't you," she said slowly.

"For G.o.d's sake, tell me, Nicola. Did you sleep with someone to get the money?"

The blood fled from her face. "I don't believe you did that. How could you invade my privacy like that?" she cried.

"I asked you a question," he said, his jaw clenched.

"And you're not getting an answer," she yelled. "I don't owe you an explanation. Think whatever suits you, Anthony," she said in a quieter voice. She got up abruptly and pushed past him to the stairs. "I'm getting out of here." She flew up the stairs and rushed into the bedroom. She opened the closet door, took out her bag, and began to stuff her clothes in. He raced up the stairs, two at a time.

"Where the h.e.l.l do you think you're going?" he asked, appearing suddenly in the doorway.

She ignored him, continuing to stuff her things into her bag. He came into the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed.

"You're not leaving until you give me an explanation," he said through gritted teeth. "I think I'm ent.i.tled to one."

She closed her bag and looked at him then, her eyes unnaturally bright.

"You're not ent.i.tled to anything, Anthony. But I will answer your questions to save you the expense of paying someone to find out. One, I got the money from a friend. Two, I'm on my way to Jamaica and three, as soon as I get there, I'm going to marry him."

"The h.e.l.l you're not!"

"The h.e.l.l I am! Now let me pa.s.s," she said.

She brushed past him and walked down the stairs. As she opened the front door he came running down the stairs, pushed it shut and held it to prevent her from leaving.

"Who is he? At least tell me that." he demanded, jealousy gnawing the pit of his stomach, his heart, his whole G.o.dd.a.m.ned body.

"Since you must know, his name is Antonio Mendoza Torres. Now, please open the door."

He went white. His hand fell from the doork.n.o.b. "Who did you say?" he demanded hoa.r.s.ely. He couldn't have heard her right.

She looked at him, then pulled the door open and went out without answering. He stood there, reeling from the second major shock he had received in the s.p.a.ce of an hour. At last, he shut the door, went back into his study, and slumped into the chair.

As the plane began its descent, Nicola's eyes were riveted on the Blue Mountains, always there to tell her she was home. Usually, their beauty made her feel teary, but this time she didn't have any tears left. She had cried them all over the past ten days since she had walked out of his town house.

She had been so nave, with her ridiculous timetable-six months until she confessed all, and then they would fall into each other's arms and live happily ever. But he had been suspicious of her all along and now he had the proof. She paid her way with s.e.x. That's what he thought, anyway. She was no different from any of the women who put themselves up for auction, and the fact that she had been a virgin didn't really change anything. Everybody was one, once upon a time. She had told him so herself. Why would he ever believe that from the first night, the first moment he touched her, she had known her heart would never belong to anyone else. She wasn't going to marry Antonio. She had flung that at him out of the depths of hurt and anger. What she was going to do was take care of her land, her inheritance, and devote herself to her father's dream, which had become hers. Eventually, she would repay her debt and the land, and maybe the dream would pa.s.s to her unborn child.

She wiped her eyes. It seemed she hadn't shed all her tears yet after all.

Chapter Thirty-One.

Theodore Mossman, senior partner in the law firm of Mossman & Mossman, whose chambers were located in New Kingston, Jamaica, stood up when Sir Anthony Astonville was shown into his office. Sir Anthony's secretary had called from London three days earlier to make an appointment for her boss, stating that he wished to see Mr. Mossman on an urgent personal matter.

Sir Anthony shook his outstretched hand, sat down and began to explain the reason for his visit. Mr. Mossman grew increasingly agitated as Sir Anthony continued to explain. He studied the photographs and doc.u.ments Sir Anthony had pa.s.sed to him with obvious dismay.

"I had no idea," he stuttered finally, when Sir Anthony had concluded.

"Obviously not," Sir Anthony said dryly.

"Our firm is normally extremely thorough," Mr. Mossman, said, pulling out his handkerchief. He removed his gla.s.ses, wiped them, and put them back on. "When the will was executed our client, your biological father, did not know for certain where your mother had taken you when she left Jamaica. She led him to believe she would go to Colombia, but he doubted it because she had told him from the start that she did not wish to go back there. Apparently, he suspected she had gone through his personal papers earlier and discovered the address of his family in Brazil. He believed she might have gone there in an attempt to connect you with your roots.

"Upon your father's death, we acted upon his instructions and sent a letter to the address in Brazil that he had provided. It was addressed to your mother and to you. The individual who presented himself in our chambers on receipt of our letter was carrying certain doc.u.ments and was in possession of certain facts that appeared credible. I believe we acted in good faith and would be able to justify our actions."

"That remains to be seen," Sir Anthony replied, sitting back in his chair and regarding him with cool detachment.

"Well, look here," Mr. Mossman said, relieved that at least the word lawsuit hadn't yet arisen in the conversation. "We will gladly do whatever is possible to put this...put this right."

"I'm delighted to hear it," Sir Anthony said. "As a matter of fact, I want you to arrange a meeting for me. Here is what I want you to do."

Ten minutes later, he left the chambers of Mossman & Mossman and took a taxi back to his hotel. Returning to his suite, he ordered room service, helped himself to a scotch from the minibar, and went to sit on the open balcony.

He wasn't all that familiar with New Kingston or Kingston, for that matter. As a child he had spent most of his time wandering about the estate, which was thirty miles away, and there hadn't been many reasons to come into the city. Yet, the panoramic view before him filled him with a sense of nostalgia, not for the past, which had been unmemorable, but for what it might have been.

He knew that Nicola had arrived in Jamaica two days earlier. Minutes after she walked out of his town house in London, he had recovered enough to realize that if she was going to marry another man, it would have to be over his dead body. He had reengaged the detective agency to find out all they could about the individual in Jamaica she intended to marry, Antonio Mendoza Torres, as speedily as possible. In particular, he wanted the name of Mr. Torres's lawyers.

He believed he owed Henrietta an explanation for his highly unusual now-I'm-in, now-I'm-out-of-the-game performance and took her out to dinner.

"We've been friends for a long time, Anthony," she said, after she had listened to his explanation, "so I had a feeling that something was up. You're never erratic, but the way things were proceeding between you and Nicola I suspected you had finally been caught. I know for a fact that several young women are going to be a little disappointed." Her gaze was so frank and her smile so warm there was no sting in her words, he blushed like a silly schoolboy.

"I'm really happy for you," she said, "and really honored that you have taken me into your confidence, so I'll tell you what I think. I feel that the man who gave her the seven million dollars may be exactly who she says he is, a friend, and if she marries him for that, it will be a great pity, for him and for her, since I'm pretty sure she's head over heels in love with you."

"She's never said that," he said gloomily.

"Have you ever asked her?"

"Not in so many words, but she never gave me any reason to think she was in it for anything else but the money. And the game," he added, as an afterthought.