Her heart gave a massive thump and her mouth went dry. She couldn’t say anything, couldn’t move. All she could do was lie against the headboard, caught in the curious paralysis of fear, her gaze locked with his. She had never thought she would be afraid of Ben Lewis, but she was. Her thoughts scattered like fireworks, sparks shooting in all directions.
His face was hard, his jaw set. She was acutely aware of the pack lying on the floor. All he had to do was pick it up and walk out, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. But he didn’t even glance at the pack; he never looked away from her. She had never seen that expression in his eyes before, so savagely intent that she shivered in primal alarm.
“B-Ben?” she managed to gasp.
He straightened away from the doorframe and stepped inside the room, soundlessly closing the door behind him. With two paces he was at the side of the bed. His big, muscular frame seemed to blot out the rest of the room. Her breath came in quick, shallow pants as she raised her hands to protect herself, knowing the gesture was useless.
He bent down, ignoring her action, and slid his big hands under her skirt. His hard fingers hooked in the waistband of her panties and peeled them down her legs. The coolness of air on her bare flesh made her acutely aware of her nakedness, her vulnerability. Shock reverberated through her with the realization of what he was going to do. He pushed her legs apart, opening her to him, and stared down for a moment at her exposed female flesh. Then his gaze lifted, to lock with hers once more and remain there. He moved between her spread thighs, placing one knee on the bed while his other foot remained firmly on the floor. Silently he unbuttoned his pants and opened them, freeing his erection. With one hand braced on the mattress beside her, he shifted deeper into the notch of her legs and positioned himself.
She couldn’t stop herself from tensing in anticipation. His entry was rough and inexorable, jolting her, and all of her inner muscles tightened in reaction to that deep intrusion. The heat of his body wrapped around her, drawing her own heat to the surface. He held himself in her to the hilt until he had overcome that inner resistance, until it had softened to a clinging caress all along his shaft that she knew he wouldn’t mistake.
“Put your arms around me,” he rasped, and mindlessly she did.
As her arms slid around his broad shoulders she felt him shudder, perhaps with relief. He leaned over her and she pressed her face to his chest, catching her breath at the slow, deep power of his thrusts.
She was stunned, disoriented. She felt the overwhelming possessiveness of his lovemaking and was keenly aware of the claim he was staking. He was refusing to let her go.
He tilted her face up with his free hand, cupping it, holding her gaze with his as he thrust into her with increasing power and speed. The headboard thudded against the wall. She clutched his rib cage as he drove her higher and higher toward climax, the glorious, maddening tension coiling in her muscles. She could feel him getting even harder inside her, and she heard her own small cries as she lifted her hips to better receive him. He never let her look away, and when she climaxed, when he pounded into her with his own release, it was with those fierce blue eyes holding hers, forcing her to accept that she was his.
Afterward he gently bullied her into the bathtub and turned on the shower, getting into the tub with her. “But what about Angelina?” she mumbled, leaning against him. Her legs would barely hold her, they were trembling so much.
“They won’t bother us.” Hungrily he kissed her. He couldn’t bring himself to stop touching her. “I’ve been waiting for you. They understand. They think it’s very romantic.”
“You’ve been waiting for me?” she asked numbly. “But how—”
“Airplane,” he said succinctly. “Senhora Sayad has one. Haven’t I ever told you that I have a pilot’s license?”
“No.” She couldn’t respond to the gentle teasing in his tone. She stood under the tepid spray, her arms hanging at her sides. The water was wonderful; she felt so weak and limp that she thought she might swirl down the drain, too. She swallowed. “Why didn’t you just take the pack and leave? You know I couldn’t have stopped you. You didn’t have to do . . . this.” She was very much afraid that he had made love to her merely to soothe his ego, wounded when she escaped with the Empress.
“You don’t seem to get the picture. It was you I came after.” He rubbed the soap into a rich lather and began sliding his hands over her body. “You won’t get away from me again.”
“But why aren’t you angry?” she asked helplessly, struggling to understand.
“I am. I’m so damn angry I just might fuck you again.”
She sputtered with laughter, then the shock and the strain caught up with her and she began to cry. Ben held her close, rocking her in his arms as they stood under the spray. He murmured soothingly, his head bent down to hers. At last it seemed the only thing he could do to comfort her was to make love to her again, so he did, lifting her up and sliding into her. Her sobs caught on a gasp; then a moment later she made a deeper sound of pleasure.
The raw sexuality of their joining soothed him, too. For a few hours he had been terrifyingly aware that he might have lost her forever—until she accepted him into her body with that stunned acquiescence, until her arms closed around him, he had been the most frightened man on earth. He didn’t intend to let her out of his sight for the next year, at least. It would take that long for him to recover from the panic.
23
Manaus was overwhelming. There were too many people, too much noise. Using Senhora Sayad’s small airplane, he had flown them into Manaus, an abrupt transition that had taken too little time. Instead of days, the trip had been accomplished in a few hours.
He arranged for the senhora’s plane to be returned to her, then they took a taxi straight from the airport to the hotel where she had stayed before. At least they were fairly presentable, she thought wryly; thanks to Senhora Sayad and the Moraeses, both they and their clothes were clean. Angelina Moraes, practically beaming that she and her husband had helped bring two lovers together again, had even insisted that Jillian use her makeup.
Ben held her at his side as he checked them into a suite at the hotel. “A suite?” she murmured. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
“I do. Don’t worry about it.”
They retrieved the belongings she and Rick had left behind, and the relieved manager also returned the letters she had written, beaming at her as he congratulated her on having returned safely. He asked about the two gentlemen, and behind Jillian, Ben gave a warning shake of his head. Understanding, the manager quickly made another comment and didn’t give Jillian time to reply. Then he personally escorted them to their suite.
Ben put Rick’s belongings aside, and while Jillian was unpacking her clothes in the bedroom he called down to the manager and quietly explained the situation to him. He told him to do whatever he wanted with Kates’s belongings. Then he arranged to have some of his own clothes collected and brought to the hotel.
Jillian could hear him on the phone, but didn’t go to the door to hear what he was saying. They hadn’t discussed the Empress at all. She was tired, tired to the bone. Ben had changed the rules of the game, and she didn’t know what to do anymore. All she wanted to do was sleep for a very long time, and maybe when she woke up she would feel like beginning the battle all over again.
Ben walked into the bedroom. “We’ll have room service tonight. Stay in and rest.”
“What do you usually do on your first night back?” she asked idly.
“Buy a bottle of whiskey and get laid.”
“You’re deviating from tradition?”
“You’re exhausted. I can wait,” he said.
She nearly fainted at hearing those words come from Ben Lewis’s mouth. He scowled at her exaggerated double take and swooped her up in his arms, then placed her on the bed. “Let this stuff wait until later,” he said, slipping her shoes off and just as easily sliding her out of the rest of her clo
thes, then deftly tucking her between the covers. “Take a nap, and that’s an order.”
“Alone?” she asked in astonishment.
He looked sheepish. “If you want to sleep, it’ll have to be alone,” he admitted, pulling the curtains shut and setting the thermostat lower. “I’ll be in the other room.”
Jillian settled herself in the large bed. She practically sank into the pillows. Her last drowsy thought was that she bet Ben could be marvelously inventive in a bed like this. Perhaps she’d find out. . . .
Ben peeked in half an hour later to make certain she was asleep. Her breathing was deep and regular. He quietly closed the door, then sat down and began making phone calls.
They had just finished their room-service breakfast the next morning when another knock sounded on the door. Ben answered it and took delivery of one large box and a suitcase.
“What’s that?” Jillian asked, following him into the bedroom where he placed both box and suitcase on the bed. A bed that had yet to be properly used, she thought. He had held her in his arms last night, but insisted that she sleep.
“The suitcase is mine,” he said. “I arranged for some of my own clothes to be delivered. The box is yours.”
She looked at it. “That isn’t my box,” she said positively.
“Yes, it is.”
“I’ve never seen that box before in my life.”
“Would you open the damn box!” he said in exasperation.
Satisfied by the response she had provoked, she lifted the lid off the box and took the contents out. It was a suit, the type of suit that very rich women wore to society luncheons, with a slim, slightly-above-the-knee skirt and a long, gracefully cut jacket. The skirt was pale pink, the simple blouse was white, and the jacket had vertical, narrow pink and white stripes. No clunky business suit, this. Everything was silk. She estimated the cost at well over five hundred dollars. Silk hosiery and matching shoes were included.
She stared blankly at it. “What is it for?”
He had placed his own suit on the bed and was taking off his clothes. “It’s for wearing,” he said. “Get dressed. Sorry about the stockings, but that isn’t the kind of suit you wear bare-legged.”
“But what’s it for?” she demanded.
“For me.” He looked at the clock. “You have twenty minutes.”
“To do what?”
“To get dressed.”
“What happens if I don’t?”
“For God’s sake, just do it!” he yelled. He was getting more nervous by the minute.
He bullied her every inch of the way, out of her clothes and into the new ones. He insisted that she do a full makeup job, and stood in the bathroom with her while she did it.
“You’re making me nervous,” she complained.
“I’m making you nervous?” he muttered.
“What are you up to, Ben Lewis? I know you. You’re sneaky and underhanded.”
“Agreed. No, I don’t like that lipstick. I like red. Use the red.”
She gave him an impatient look in the mirror. “Not with a pink suit.”
“Oh. Okay. How do women know about stuff like that?”
“Simple. You put on red lipstick with a pink blouse one day and see that it looks wrong. You put on a lighter lipstick, and it looks all right. What did you think, that the ability to coordinate colors is a side effect of ovulation?”
He wisely didn’t answer that question.
She barely had the lipstick on before he had her by the hand, dragging her out the door.
In the elevator she pinned him with a glare. “What’s going on? I don’t like not knowing what to expect. I don’t deal well with surprises. I usually don’t like them. It’s safer just to tell me what you’ve planned.”
“Jesus,” he muttered.
The elevator doors opened and the hotel manager rushed toward them. “Is everything satisfactory, Senhor Lewis?”
“Perfect, Senhor Jobim. Everything is arranged?”
“Yes, senhor. Everyone is waiting.”
“Who is ’everyone’?” Jillian growled.
“You’ll see.” His hand firmly gripped her waist, propelling her forward. In the interest of dignity, she went.
Senhor Jobim, the manager, led them to a large meeting room and opened the door. As Ben ushered her inside, a group of about thirty people, mostly men, rushed toward them. Ben deftly stepped in front of her, holding them back as he continued to steer her toward a dais set up at one end of the room.
The bright lights clicked on, bathing them in heat and brilliance.
Questions were being shouted at her in a mixture of English and Portuguese. She heard the words “Anzar” and “Amazons” and gave Ben a murderous look. He was going to make her look like a fool. He might have gotten these people here, but without proof, she would be a laughingstock.
There was a cluster of microphones on the dais, as well as a table and two chairs. Ben seated her in one of them, then took the other.
“Be seated,” he said into the microphones, his deep voice booming around the room. “The sooner you all settle down, the sooner your questions will be answered.”
In a relatively short time, the room was fairly quiet.
“Some of you are representatives of the Brazilian Department of Antiquities,” he said. “Some of you are press. Miss Sherwood will make a brief statement about her discovery, then she will take questions first from the government representatives. I’m sure you ladies and gentlemen of the press realize that this will give you more to report, as the Antiquities people know the right questions to ask, so we’d appreciate your indulgence on this.”
He turned and nodded to Jillian, and under the table, his big warm hand covered hers and gave it a comforting squeeze.
She wasn’t uncomfortable speaking before a group, having done it before, but she had to fight down a queasy sensation. Very plainly, she outlined how she had found her father’s notes about the lost city and the lost tribe of the Anzar, and she related the myth. She explained how she and her brother, and another associate, had put together an expedition to follow the coded instructions in her father’s notes. Both her brother and their associate had lost their lives in the expedition to the interior.
Videotape cameras were whirring quietly.
“We found it. We found the Stone City of the Anzar. It is literally carved from stone and would have housed thousands. There are not many everyday artifacts to be found, suggesting to me that the Anzar abandoned the city and carried their possessions with them. But they left behind a most amazing temple. There is a single tomb inside it, a tomb with a man carved on top in bas-relief. And the temple is lined with statues of female warriors—”
She got no further, for the room erupted into a buzz like a swarm of angry bees. As she had expected, the press didn’t respect Ben’s request to let the people from Antiquities ask the first questions.
“Are you saying you found the Amazons, Miss Sherwood?” a wire-service reporter asked.
“That’s for historians to say. The Stone City will take a lot of study. All I’m saying is that we found statues of female warriors.”
“Just how big are these statues?”
“Including the pedestals, about ten feet tall.”
“This code your father used,” another reporter shouted. “Was he connected with military intelligence?”
“No. He was a professor of archaeology.”
“Cyrus Sherwood?”
“Yes,” she said, and braced herself.
“Wasn’t he known as Crackpot Sherwood?”
“Yes, he was. But this proves that he wasn’t a crackpot at all. He was right.”
“What kind of code was it?”
“A code he devised when I was a child. It’s based on the Lord’s Prayer.” Beside her, she sensed Ben giving her an incredulous look.
“Senhorinha Sherwood,” said a bearded gentleman in a double-breasted suit; she immediately assumed he was a member of the Department of Antiqui
ties. “What proof did you bring back of this fabulous find?”
Silence fell over the room. “Photographs, perhaps?” the gentleman persisted. “Examples?” When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “Senhorinha, I very much suspect that this is exactly the type of... of joke your father was famous for perpetrating.”
“Perhaps,” Ben interrupted gently, “you owe both Miss Sherwood and her father an apology. We have proof.”
Jillian went white. In that instant, she knew. She turned stunned eyes on him as he leaned down and pulled a bundle from beneath the dais.
She turned her head away from the microphones. “Ben,” she said weakly.
He winked at her, his eyes bright and mischievous as he set the bundle on the table and gently began unwrapping it.
The cloth fell away and the red stone glowed with incredible warmth under the blinding lights. “The Empress,” Ben said. “A red diamond, one of the rarest gems in the world.” Cameras were clicking madly, and reporters were shouting. The gentleman from Antiquities was staring at it with mouth agape. “Though for my money,” Ben continued, “I think it should be renamed the Jillian Stone.”
“I can’t believe you did that,” she said numbly. They were back in their suite. He had finally extricated her from the madhouse downstairs. The Empress was now in the loving and fanatical custody of the Department of Antiquities, frantic efforts were already being made to put together another expedition, and phone lines were humming as archaeologists everywhere tried to be included. The Empress would be featured on news programs around the world that afternoon.
“A bit dramatic,” he agreed. “But good showmanship. It got their attention more than if the rock had already been sitting there when they went in.”
“Not that,” she said. Her eyes were huge, and she looked as if she might cry. He didn’t want that to happen. Quickly he grabbed her and threw her across the bed, following her down and pinning her there with his big body.
“It wasn’t that hard a decision,” he confessed. “When you cut out on me like that, I knew I had to make a choice between you and that damn rock. I’d rather have you, period.”