“I know you’re finding it hard to trust me,” he said evenly. “I know I’ve given you reason for that. If it helps, I’ll give you my word that I don’t want the cross or the credit for finding it. That’s all I can do, Spencer.”
She wanted to ask, Can you give me your word you won’t hurt me? But she didn’t ask.
She looked down, and in the erratic flashes of passing streetlights the clasp of their hands seemed strangely symbolic of what she was feeling. Her hand, pale in the light, almost unseen in the shadows, was lost in his larger, stronger one, held captive, unresisting. She hoped it was only because she was tired, because she hadn’t slept much last night and could never sleep on planes and had never been a good traveler anyway.
She was tired. And she was glad he was here, with her. Never mind why. Why didn’t matter, wouldn’t matter, until he took what belonged to him and got her out of his system. Then it would matter. When he left her. Then she’d have to face it.
“Spencer?”
In a soft, careful voice, she said, “Finding the cross for Dad means everything to me. Promise—please promise me that you won’t interfere with that.”
His hand tightened around hers, curiously gentle. “I promise. You have my word I won’t do anything to hinder you, Spencer. I’ll help all I can.”
She nodded in the flickering darkness. “All right.” She didn’t know if she believed him, but she didn’t try again to pull her hand away. She had a faint sense of bridges burning behind her, and it gave her an odd feeling of relief. She was going to do her best to find the cross. And whatever happened between her and Drew, she would do her best to emerge from it, if not whole, then at least with enough of herself left intact to go on.
There were worse things to be than a survivor.
Drew didn’t release her hand even when they arrived at the hotel, helping her from the taxi after he’d paid the driver and leading her through the imposing lobby. A bellman trotted after them with Spencer’s two bags, and she carried a smaller tote bag on her shoulder in lieu of a purse.
Detouring by the desk only long enough to speak briefly with the clerk—in French, so Spencer had no idea what he’d said to produce the smile on the man’s face—Drew led her to the elevators, still holding her hand firmly. He said something to the bellman, which also drew a smile, then looked down at Spencer and explained that he always stayed in this hotel whenever he was in Paris, and that the staff knew him.
The information didn’t surprise her.
There was no question that Drew was in charge; he was matter-of-fact about it without arrogance, but she had the feeling he wouldn’t give way if she challenged that cool authority. He clearly believed that her acquiescence had given him this role, or else he simply intended to take it.
Oddly, Spencer wasn’t tempted to protest—not yet, at any rate. She wasn’t called on to make any decisions or choices, not even what floor she wanted a room on, and it was easy to simply accept. For a few minutes she even allowed herself to enjoy the feeling of being taken care of. She hadn’t been conscious of wanting that during the past months, because there had been too much to do and too many other worries to think very much about shifting her burdens. Now, when it occurred to her that she was at ease with Drew’s having taken charge, she wondered what that said about her.
Grappling with that unnerving question, she didn’t pay much attention to her surroundings until Drew unlocked the door of his suite and led her inside. She pulled her hand gently from his grasp and went to stand near the window as she looked around the spacious sitting room. There were two bedrooms; she watched the bellman take her bags into one of them when Drew told him which one was hers, but said nothing until the man accepted his tip and left them alone in the suite.
“I’m surprised you got two bedrooms,” she heard herself say in a slightly wry tone.
Drew shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the arm of a chair, smiling a little. “I could say it was all the hotel had available.”
“You could. Would it be true?”
“No. I meant what I said, Spencer. The priority right now is the cross.”
She half nodded, accepting that even though she couldn’t help wondering if he was merely amusing himself by toying with her. “What time is the flight tomorrow?”
“Two. Earliest I could get.”
Her watch was still on U.S. time and Spencer didn’t bother to look at it. No matter what the local time was, she was tired and needed sleep. She’d cope better with jet lag—to say nothing of coping with Drew—after a good night’s sleep. “I think I’ll turn in, then,” she murmured.
“Did you eat anything on the plane?”
Before she could stop it, a faint grimace pulled at her lips. “I hate airplane food. I’m not hungry though, so—”
“To hear you talk, you’re never hungry. But I am, and you need to eat something. Why don’t you get ready for bed while I order a light meal from room service. Then you can sleep late tomorrow and we’ll both be ready for the hunt.”
What he said made sense, and she shrugged an acceptance as she started toward her bedroom. “Okay, fine. Just don’t order snails unless you like them.”
“I don’t.” He seemed amused. “Anything else you’d like me to avoid?”
“Anything with alcohol.” She paused in the doorway of her bedroom and offered a faint smile. “I’m allergic. Can’t even take cold medicine unless it’s alcohol free.”
Drew was obviously surprised. “I didn’t know that. How do you react to it?”
“Putting it as delicately as possible, I get rid of it. Quickly. The stuff makes me vilely sick.”
“I suppose that includes wine in sauces?”
“Yes.”
He nodded in understanding and watched her bedroom door close quietly behind her. He was more than a little worried about her. Knowing now what she’d gone through in the past months, he was hardly surprised that the trip from D.C. had left her pale with exhaustion. The emotional strain since her father’s stroke had to be intense, had to be wearing away at her reserves of strength and will—and she was still on her feet, still determined to go on with this.
Wyatt pride, bred into her very bones? Or something else, an inner core of steel that kept her going when most would have given up the effort? He didn’t know, not yet, but he was beginning to believe that she had more than her share of courage. That her seeming fragility was deceptive he already knew; watching her difficult and demanding work with the horses had told him that. But in a few short months she’d been burdened with overwhelming stresses on a level she could never have been prepared for, and there had to be a breaking point.
Only days ago the thought of her control in splinters had afforded Drew a savage pleasure. Now the very idea was something he didn’t like to imagine. He wanted to know what was under the control, wanted to be able to read the emotions in her eyes, but he didn’t want her broken. He wasn’t sure, now, if he ever had wanted that.
He wanted to take care of her. That awareness had lurked in his mind since he had realized at the farm that she hadn’t been taking care of herself, hadn’t been eating right or resting enough, and he hadn’t stopped to examine his own feelings. Now he pushed the matter aside, still too raw and unsettled emotionally to try to untangle what he felt about her.
He studied the room-service menu briefly and then called to place the order, double-checking to make certain there was no alcohol in anything. After that he killed time by pacing restlessly, too aware of the sound of the shower in the next room, of her nearness. His desire for her had only increased during the past days, and the protective feelings, his anxiety about her, had done nothing except turn what had been a bitter and almost savage need into something that was far less harsh and yet curiously more relentless, more imperative.
She wouldn’t fight him, he knew that. She wanted him. But she didn’t want to want him. He knew that, too. She would burn in his arms with an astonishing passion he’d had only a
taste of, but she wouldn’t be his. That certainty, more than anything, was responsible for his hesitation to take her now as he’d promised he would. It wouldn’t be enough, just to take her, not if it was something she simply surrendered to because her body couldn’t fight his. He wanted more. Not just a physical response but the pride and strength of her, the secrets her control hid so well, the emotions he could only guess at. He wanted it all.
Halting near the door to her bedroom, he stood listening unconsciously to the sound of the shower, his mind conjuring up an image of her with haunting ease. Remembering how she’d felt against him, the soft curves and delicate bones, the warm silk of her hair wrapped around his fingers, the electrifying way her body had molded itself to his, the hunger of her mouth beneath his.
In the shower there would be droplets of water clinging to her pale gold skin. Steam all around her. She’d be warm and slippery, her lips wet when he kissed her, her eyes dazed with pleasure as he touched her naked body. . . .
The sound of the shower stopped suddenly and, realizing what he was doing, Drew turned jerkily away from the closed door and paced over to the window. “God,” he murmured, staring blindly out into the darkness.
Control. She had too much. And he had precious little.
The arrival of the room-service waiter a few minutes later was a welcome distraction, and by the time the food had been set out on the table near Drew’s bedroom he had managed to pull on a mask of his own. When Spencer came out of her bedroom, covered from neck to ankles by one of the thick terry robes the hotel thoughtfully provided its guests, he was even able to greet her lightly.
“Perfect timing.”
“Looks that way,” she responded with equal casual-ness, taking her place at the table. She didn’t appear quite so exhausted as she had, but with her hair loose around her face she seemed very young and almost heartbreakingly fragile.
Drew had never felt protective urges toward any woman in his life except Spencer, and he had never felt a desire for any woman so intense he wanted to make wild love to her until neither of them could walk without help—except Spencer.
He wondered if he was losing his mind.
Taking his own place across from her, he tried to think of something else, some casual topic that would distract his mind. But in the end it was Spencer who spoke first.
“I suppose you’ll want to see Dad’s papers.” Her head was a little bent as she unfolded her napkin across her lap, and she didn’t look at him.
He hesitated, then said, “I think I’d probably be more help to you if I saw them, and I’d like to try and find the clues you found. But it’s up to you, Spencer.”
She sent him a fleeting glance. “The originals are in a bank vault. I made copies of everything, even of some notes he scribbled on odd sheets of paper.”
“Was that a yes or a no?” Drew asked wryly.
“It’s a yes.” She picked up her fork, meeting his gaze steadily this time. “I’m a little curious to see if you find what I did. After all, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’ll be able to tell me without any doubt that this is a wild-goose chase.”
“You have doubts?” he asked curiously, because she had seemed so sure.
“No. But what do I know, after all? You’re the expert. I’m not even a talented amateur.”
Drew was silent for a few moments, watching as she began eating, then said quietly, “I’ve said a few things you’re not going to easily forgive, haven’t I?”
She looked up, clearly surprised and, for an instant, puzzled. Then her slight frown cleared and she said, “I wasn’t being sarcastic, if that’s what you think. The truth is that any claim to knowledge I have is shaky at best. I went to college and I earned a degree, but I majored in history, not archaeology. I’ve listened to Dad, but he wasn’t trying to teach me and I wasn’t trying to learn.”
He half nodded, but said, “Still, I’ve been pretty rough on you. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Spencer absently sipped the milk he’d ordered for her, wishing she could read his expression. Even in the light, she had no idea what he was thinking or feeling. “That sounds like an abrupt change of attitude. What brought it on?”
Drew hadn’t meant to bring up the subject, but he was angry at himself for having misjudged her out of his own bitterness, and disliked the idea that he had added to her burdens. Flatly he said, “I spent the morning checking a few of my assumptions. You obviously didn’t want me to know, but I found out anyway.”
“Found out what?” she asked warily.
“That Allan as good as bankrupted himself before the stroke. And that you’ve been coping with the results for the last six months.”
“That’s none of your business,” she said, chin lifting.
“You should have told me.”
“Why? To give you another chance to call me a liar, or to accuse me of trying to drum up a little sympathy? No, thanks. Besides that, it isn’t your concern.”
Remembering that first night when he had torn at her mercilessly out of his own caustic anger, Drew could hardly blame her for believing that his reaction would have been disbelief or something worse. In fact, he knew it would have been. The realization left him with nothing to say. He finished eating, more automatically than out of any sense of hunger, and thought that she did the same.
“Do you want to have the papers tonight?” she asked somewhat stiffly as soon as she pushed her plate away.
“I can start on them tonight,” he said. “I don’t need much sleep.”
Spencer got up and went into her room, leaving Drew to rise more slowly. He moved into the sitting area, even more restless than he’d been earlier, conscious of frustration and anxiety. He wasn’t handling this well, and he knew it. Just when she seemed to have accepted his help, when she appeared to be almost at ease with him, he’d had to bring up something virtually guaranteed to make her retreat stiffly. He hadn’t meant that to happen; more than anything, he’d just wanted to make amends for the way he’d treated her that first night. To try to tell her that he knew he’d been wrong about her and that he was sorry for the things he’d said.
Her chin had gone up, the flash in her eyes warning him that he’d trespassed on ground she had marked as off-limits. Wyatt pride again, maybe. Or perhaps it was just her pride, her determination to carry the burdens alone. Whatever the reason, she clearly wasn’t willing to talk to him about her father’s—and her—financial problems. And though that was understandable, it bothered him that there were things she couldn’t tell him, places in her life that weren’t open to him.
He told himself that he’d only come back into her life days ago—and acted like a bastard when he did—so he couldn’t expect the path to be a smooth one. But the patience that had always come so easily to him seemed beyond reach now. He needed, and the hunger was as much emotional as physical, leaving him more vulnerable than he’d ever been in his life and urging him to hurry, to grab and hold on tight.
Before he lost her again.
He felt a shock and then a strange, cold tightness in his chest. It was fear, and he knew it. A fear of somehow making the same mistake he must have made ten years ago, the mistake that had driven her away from him.
“Here are the papers.” She came into the sitting area and dropped a thick manila envelope onto the coffee table, then immediately turned away.
Drew took three long steps and blocked her way out of the room, his hands lifting to rest on her shoulders. “Spencer, I was wrong about you, and I’m sorry. I want you to know that. To believe it.”
“All right.” She didn’t meet his eyes, but looked fixedly at the top button of his shirt. Her voice was a little breathless, and she was very still.
Just thinking about her had his control on the fine edge of impossible; touching her was pushing him over the brink. Even through the thick terry of her robe he could feel warm flesh and delicate bones, feel how petite she was. Her hair smelled like sunshine and her skin looked so silky that he
had to touch it. His hand moved before he was even aware of it, sliding beneath the dark curtain of her hair to touch her neck. Her skin was silky, and so fine he could feel her pulse thudding rapidly as he gently pushed her chin up.
“Have I made you hate me?” His voice was strained.
She looked up at him with huge eyes, the smoke gray of them disturbed and nervous. “I don’t hate you. But . . . I don’t understand you.”
His thumb rhythmically stroked the clean line of her jaw, feeling the tension there. Gazing down at her, he was seeing the girl she’d been all those years ago—lovely, sweet, accepting the role of woman with grace and doubt. What had he done to push her away then? He didn’t know, couldn’t ask, and he wanted her so intensely he could hardly think. The distraction was reflected in his voice when he said, “I’m not so complicated.”
“You are.” She sounded a little bewildered. “You’ve changed so much since the night you came to the house. I don’t know what to think, what to believe. Who are you? What do you want from me, Drew?”
He didn’t have an answer, at least not one he could explain to her—or to himself. Except that he wanted her and was afraid of losing her. That was the only thing he was sure of.
Driven, he lowered his head and covered her slightly parted lips with his own, the hand at her shoulder moving down her back to pull her closer, until he could feel her against him. Hunger jolted through him, so abrupt and potent it was like a blow, and his mouth hardened fiercely on hers as his tongue probed deeply. She trembled, her delicate body molding itself to his and her arms lifting to slide around his waist. She made a soft, muffled sound of pleasure.
Even though desire had been tormenting him, Drew hadn’t intended this to get out of hand. He was too aware of her exhaustion and her wariness not to know that the timing wasn’t the best. But her response, so instant and total, tested his uncertain control to the limits, and he wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to stop. His need for her was almost intolerable, burning and aching through his entire body until he nearly groaned aloud. Her mouth was so sweet and hot under his, and her body felt so good in his arms, against him. It felt so right.