lips were strong, more potent than sweet. The light-headed weariness passed into a light-headed power. With her, he could do and have anything.
The night was hot, the air moist and heavy with the scent of dozens of heat-soaked flowers. Night-feeding insects rubbed their wings and whined. He wanted candlelight for her, and a soft, cool feather bed with silk-covered pillows. He wanted to give, something new for a man who, while generous, always took first.
Her body was so delicate. It captivated him in a way all the others—the flamboyant, the obvious, the professional—never had. Her curves were subtle, her bones long and elegant. Her skin was soft in a way that spoke of daily pampering. He told himself there’d be a time when he’d have the luxury of exploring every inch of her, slowly, thoroughly, until he knew her like no other man ever had, like no other man ever would.
There was something different about him. He was no less passionate, but she knew there was something…
Her senses were tangled, layered one on top of the other so that she was caught in a delicious mass of sensation. She could feel, but what she felt came from him. The stroke of a fingertip, the brush of lips. She could taste, but it was his flavor which filled her, warm, male, exciting. She heard him murmur to her, and her own whispered answer floated on the air. His scent reached her, muskier, more intoxicating than the hothouse that surrounded them. Until now, she hadn’t understood what it meant to be steeped in someone. Until now, she hadn’t wanted to.
She opened. He filled. He gave. She absorbed.
From the beginning, they’d raced together. This was no different. Heart pounding against heart, bodies close, they crossed the line all lovers seek.
They slept lightly, only an hour, but it was a luxury they took greedily, curled together on the seat of the jeep. The moon was lower now. Doug watched its position through the trees before he nudged her.
“We’ve got to move.” Remo might still be scrambling for transportation; then again, he might already be on the road behind them. Either way, he wouldn’t be cheerful.
Whitney sighed and stretched. “How much farther?”
“I don’t know—another hundred, maybe hundred and twenty miles.”
“Okay.” Yawning, she began to dress. “I’ll drive.”
He snorted as he pulled on his jeans. “The hell you will. I’ve driven with you before, remember?”
“I certainly do.” After a brief inspection, Whitney decided the wrinkles in her clothes were permanent. She wondered if there was any chance of finding a dry cleaner. “Just as I remember I saved your life then, too.”
“Saved it?” Doug turned to see her rooting out her brush. “You nearly got us both killed.”
Whitney flicked the brush through her hair. “I beg your pardon. Through my superior skill and maneuvering, I not only saved your ass, but detained Remo and his band of merry men.”
Doug turned on the ignition. “I guess it’s all a matter of perspective. Anyway, I’ll drive. You’ve had too much to drink.”
Whitney cast him a long, withering look. “The MacAllisters never lose their wits.” She grabbed the door handle as they bumped through the brush and onto the road.
“All that ice cream,” Doug decided as he set a steady speed. “It coats the stomach so the booze neutralizes.”
“Very droll.” She released the door handle, propped her feet on the dash, and watched the night whiz by. “It occurs to me that you’re quite aware of my family history and background. What about yours?”
“Which story do you want?” he asked lightly. “I keep a variety, depending on the occasion.”
“Everything from the destitute orphan to the misplaced aristocrat, I’m sure.” Whitney studied his profile. Who was he? she wondered. And why did she care? She didn’t have the first answer, but the time had passed when she could pretend she didn’t have the second. “What about the real one, just for variety?”
He could have lied. It would have been a simple matter for him to have given her the story of a homeless little boy sleeping in alleys and running from a vicious stepfather. And he could have made her believe it. Settling back, Doug did what he did rarely. He told the unvarnished truth.
“I grew up in Brooklyn, a nice, quiet neighborhood. Blue-collar, plain, and settled. My mother kept house and my father fixed drains. Both my sisters were cheerleaders. We had a dog named Checkers.”
“It sounds very normal.”
“Yeah, it was.” And sometimes, rarely, he could bring it back