Miserably wide-awake, Gypsy finally headed for the stairs leading down to the beach. Why waste her outfit? Let the moon have a thrill.
It was unusually warm for early June, and she briefly debated a moonlight swim before discarding the notion. It wasn’t all that warm. And she didn’t feel like swimming. She felt like sitting on her rock and crying for an hour or two. Or three.
Blind to everything except inner misery, she made for her rock as soon as the stairs had been successfully negotiated. But normal vision took over when she reached the rock. There was a white towel lying on it.
Gypsy picked up the towel slowly, blankly. Had someone left it here, or—Chase! Swimming alone? She turned quickly toward the roaring ocean, a sudden fear filling her sickeningly It drained away in waves of relief as she saw him.
The huge orange moon, hanging low in the sky, silhouetted his head and shoulders as he moved toward the beach. Gypsy watched, hypnotized by the unforgettable sight of him rising from the ocean as raw as nature had made him.
He was all wild, primitive grace, curiously restrained power, she thought. His wet flesh glistened in the moonlight; rippling muscles were highlighted, shadowed. It was as if the Creator had begun with a jungle cat and then decided to mold a man instead from the living flesh. He was bold and strong and male, Gypsy felt—a living portrait of what a man could be. And Gypsy’s heart nearly stopped beating.
She fixed her eyes on his shadowed face as he stopped before her, automatically handing him the towel with nerveless fingers. “You shouldn’t swim alone,” she said, wondering at the calm tone.
“I know.” His voice was husky. He slowly knotted the towel around his lean waist.
Gypsy tried in vain to read his expression; the moon behind him prevented it. “Why did you?”
“I flipped a coin. Swimming won over a cold shower.”
“They don’t work, you know.” She laughed shakily. “Cold showers, I mean.”
“Have you tried?” he murmured, one hand lifting to brush a curl from her forehead.
She nodded. “Tonight. It didn’t help.”
His hand moved slowly downward, the knuckles lightly brushing along the plunging V of her gown until he was toying with the little satin bow. “And… you were coming to me, Gypsy mine?”
Gypsy swallowed hard, mentally burning her bridges. “I— I was. But I lost my courage.”
“Why?”
He was nearer now, and she could see the catlike gleam of his jade eyes in the shadowy face. What was he thinking? “Because … I was afraid. Afraid you’d laugh at me.”
“With you, yes. At you, never.” His voice matched the muted roar of the ocean in its infinite certainty. His fingers abandoned the bow to slide slowly around her waist, his free hand lifting to cradle her neck. “You’re so lovely. I thought I’d dreamed you. And now I’m afraid I’ll wake up.”
Gypsy felt damp, hair-roughened flesh against her palms, aware only then that she’d lifted her hands to touch his muscular chest. The pounding of the surf entered her bloodstream; the moonlight blinded her to reason. “If you wake up,” she breathed, “wake me up too.”
Chase made a soft, rough sound deep in his throat, bending his head to kiss her with a curiously fervent hunger. She could feel the restraint in his taut muscles, the fierce desire he couldn’t hide, and a fire ignited somewhere deep in her inner being. Her arms slid up around his neck as Chase crushed her against his hard length, and Gypsy gloried in the strength of his embrace.
She met the seductive invasion of his tongue fiercely, her fingers thrusting through his thick hair and her body molding itself to his. Hunger ate at her like a starving beast, stronger than anything she’d ever known before.
In a single blinding moment of understanding, of clarity, she realized why she was taking this chance, why she was willing to risk pain. It was simply because she had no choice. This—whatever it was—was stronger, far stronger, than she was.
Chase lifted his head at last, breathing roughly, harshly. She could feel his heart pounding against her with the same untamed rhythm of her own. Staring up at him with dazed eyes, she realized that she was trembling, and that he was too.
“Let me love you, Gypsy mine,” he pleaded thickly. “I need you so badly, so desperately…”
It wasn’t in Gypsy to refuse, to protest. It just wasn’t in her, she realized. She tightened her arms around his neck, rising up on tiptoe to press shaking lips to his, telling him huskily, “I thought you’d never ask….”
He kissed her swiftly and then swung her up easily into his arms, heading across to the stairs leading up to his backyard. Surprisingly he chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t dare try making love to you on the beach, sweetheart,” he murmured whimsically. “One of us would be bound to get bitten by a sand crab… or something.”
Gypsy found herself smiling. “Just call me Pauline.”
“I’d rather call you mine.” His arms tightened as he climbed the stairs, her slight weight obviously not bothering him in the least. “Fair warning…. I’m playing for keeps.” He stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down at her as if waiting for her to change her mind… or to commit herself.
She fought back a sudden unease. “Can we talk about that tomorrow?” she asked softly, her lips feathering along his jaw-line.
“I’m not sure.” His voice had grown hoarse. “I think I should have it in writing with you, sweetheart. You’re so… damn … elusive!”
“Not really,” she murmured, fascinated by the salty taste of his skin. “But if you keep standing here, it’s going to start raining or something, and ruin the mood….”
Rather hastily Chase headed for the deck. “You’re so right, Pauline!”
Gypsy laughed, but her laugh faded away as he carried her through the glassed-in half of the deck to the sliding glass doors leading to his bedroom. The doors were open, and he brushed aside the gauzy drapes and carried her inside.
His bedroom was lighted only by a dim lamp on the night-stand. The covers were thrown back on the king-size bed, evidence of his inability to sleep. The room was definitely a man’s room: solid, heavy oak furniture, earth tones—a place for everything and everything in its place. But there was a curious sensitivity in the unusual seascapes on the walls; they were lonely, bleak, riveting in their otherworldly aloneness.
Gypsy noticed little of the room; her full attention was focused on Chase. She could see his face clearly now in the lamplight, and the undisguised need gleaming in his jade eyes held her spellbound. She’d never seen such a look in a man’s eyes before, and it made her suddenly, achingly aware of the hollow emptiness inside herself.
He set her gently on her feet beside the bed, his fingers lifting to fumble at the little satin bow. “Gypsy… I want you to be sure,” he said roughly, as if the words were forced from him.
Shrugging off the lacy peignoir, she said unsteadily, “The only thing I’m sure of is that I’m glad I found you on the beach tonight.”
His eyes darkening almost to black, Chase bent his head to touch his lips to hers as if she were something infinitely precious. His hands brushed the lacy straps of her gown off her shoulders, and Gypsy felt the cool slide of silk against her flesh as the gown fell to the deep pile of the carpeted floor. Her arms slid up around his neck, the searing shock of flesh meeting flesh sending tremors through her body as he crushed her against him.
His hands moved up and down her spine, pressing her even nearer, his mouth exploring hers as if he could never get enough of her. Tongues clashed in near-violent hunger as Gypsy matched his need with her own. She lost herself in that moment, something primitive possessing her with the strength of a fury
Gypsy felt she wasn’t close enough to him, could never be close enough, and the realization was maddening. She fumbled with the towel at his waist, flung it aside, just before he lifted her into his arms, placed her gently on the bed and came down beside her. Gypsy looked up at him, her eyes heavy with desire, watching as his gaze mo
ved slowly over her body.
“So perfect,” he murmured huskily. “So tiny and perfect. …” He bent his head, capturing the hardened tip of one breast with fervent lips.
Her senses spiraled crazily as his hands and lips explored. She was floating, being pulled inexorably in a single direction, and the current was too strong to resist. She felt the sensual abrasiveness of his hands, the heated touch of his mouth, and moved restlessly in a vain effort to ease the tormenting ache inside her.
“Gypsy….” He rained kisses over her face, her throat; he took her hand and placed it on his chest. “Touch me, sweetheart. I need your touch….”
Eagerly, driven by curiosity, by a starving sense of not knowing enough of him, she touched, explored. She felt the thick mat of dark gold hair curling on his chest, the muscles bunching and rippling with every move. Her fingers molded wide shoulders, traced along his spine, slid around to marvel at his flat, taut belly.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“What?” he breathed, his mouth slowly trailing fire along a path leading him downward. The sensitive skin of her lower stomach quivered at the touch.
Gypsy gripped his shoulders fiercely, biting back a soft moan. “That a man could be so beautiful,” she gasped.
“You’re beautiful,” he rasped softly, his fingers probing gently, erotically until they found the heated center of her desire. “So sweet, Gypsy mine….”
She was only dimly aware of her nails digging into his flesh, her eyes wide and startled at sensations she’d never experienced before. A strange tension grew within her, winding tighter and tighter until there was no bearing it. “Chase….” she pleaded hurriedly, desperate to reach some unknown place, frantic to tap the critical mass building inside her frail body.
“Yes, darling….” He rose above her, his breathing as rough and shallow as hers, eyes blazing darkly out of a taut face. With almost superhuman control he moved gently, sensitively.
Gypsy knew that he was being careful, trying not to hurt her. But the primitive fury possessing her burst its bounds, escaping with the exploding suddenness of a Pacific storm. She took fire in his arms, as wild as all unreason, giving of herself with passionate, innocent simplicity. She drew him deep inside herself fiercely, caught him in the silken trap of woman unleashed, held him with every fiber of her being. He was hers. For one brief, eternal moment he was hers, and she branded him….
Gypsy barely stirred when Chase drew the sheet over their cooling bodies. Nothing short of a massive earthquake would have budged her from his side, and she didn’t care how obvious that fact was to him. She felt drained, contented, and very much at peace.
“Gypsy?” He was raised on one elbow, gazing down at her with a sort of wonder in his eyes.
She looked up at him, smiling, much the same wonder shining in her eyes. Without thought she lifted a hand to touch his cheek, her smile turning misty when he held the hand with his own and gently kissed the palm.
“Rockets,” he murmured whimsically, smiling crookedly at her. “And bells … and shooting stars … and earthquakes.”
“You’re welcome,” she told him solemnly, reaching for humor because she felt the moment was almost unbearably sweet.
Chuckling, he drew her even closer, arranging her at his side and wrapping his arms around her. “You’re quite a lady, Gypsy mine.”
She decided that his shoulder had been expressly designed for pillowing her head. “Well… I wasn’t such a total slouch as a seductress after all, was I?”
“Honey,” he laughed softly, “you’ve been seducing me since the day we met.”
“Have I? Then why did you keep on talking about seducing me?”
“Encouraging you. I thought it was time you—uh— spread your wings.”
“That was big of you.”
“I thought so. After all—I’m a great supporter of the quest for human knowledge. And experience.”
“Will you give me a reference?”
“Not a chance. We’ll keep all your experience in the family.”
“In the family?”
“No summer flings, Gypsy mine. I warned you. For keeps.”
Gypsy was silent for a long moment. It warmed her that Chase should be so set on making a commitment, but it also disturbed her.
“Gypsy?” There was a thread of anxiety in his deep voice.
“You don’t know what I’m like,” she said softly. “You really don’t know, Chase. I’m afraid… afraid I’ll ruin things.”
“Your writing?”
She nodded mutely, staring across the lamplit room at one of the lonely seascapes and wondering suddenly if there was a very lonely man behind Chase’s cheerful facade.
“We can work it out, honey,” he told her in a voice of quiet certainty. “I know we can. If you’ll just give us a chance.”
“How will you feel,” she persisted tonelessly “when I start ignoring you—maybe for days at a time? When I can’t stand to be touched or bothered in any way? When I snap at you for no good reason? When I work around the clock?”
“We’ll work it out,” he repeated quietly.
“But what if we can’t?” Her voice sounded afraid of itself.
“If we both make an effort, there’s nothing we can’t do. I promise you, sweetheart.”
“I need time,” she whispered. “Time to be sure.” After a moment she felt his lips moving against her forehead.
“Then we’ll take all the time you need.” His hands began wandering beneath the covers, and he abruptly lightened the mood. “Meanwhile back at the farm…”
“Chase…” She swallowed a giggle, wondering how he could have her near tears one moment and giggling the next.
“I’m hooked on you, Gypsy mine; you’ll just have to accept that.”
“Take your hand off my derriere, sir!” she commanded with injured dignity. “Or I shall retaliate!”
“Please do,” he invited politely.
Luckily she just happened to discover his weakness. She tickled him and was immediately rewarded when he choked back a laugh.
“Gypsy—”
“Ha! You’re ticklish! I knew there was a chink in the armor.”
“I’m bigger than you, sweetheart,” he warned, struggling to keep her hands away from ticklish places.
“Not if you’re ticklish.” Gypsy feinted and lunged with happy abandon, breaking through his defenses from time to time. “If you’re ticklish, you’re at my mercy!”
“Stop that, you witch!” He choked, making a vain attempt to pin her down to the bed. “I’ll tickle you until you can’t breathe,” he promised threateningly.
“Go ahead.” Gypsy launched another sneak attack, smiling with evil enjoyment. “I’m not ticklish.”
“What?” He looked horrified. “Not at all?”
“Well… there is one place.”
“I’ll find it,” he vowed determinedly, hastily blocking her newest line of attack. “If it takes me the rest of my life!”
“Until then—” She commenced a two-handed, hell-for-leather attack.
“Gypsy!”
eight
“CHASE, YOU CAN’T DO THAT IN A JACUZZI.”
“Says who?”
“Me. We’ll drown.”
“It’s a chance in a million. I’m willing to risk it; how about you?”
“I have to get out. It’s nearly noon. We’ve wasted the entire morning.”
“Wasted?”
“Well…”
“You look so lovely… like Circe, rising from—”
“I hope you’ve got your legends mixed up,” she interrupted tartly.
Chase was suspiciously innocent. “Why?”
“Circe turned men into swine, that’s why.”
“Sorry. Who do I mean?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Helen of Troy?”
“‘The face that launched a thousand ships’? I don’t look that good, pal.”
> “You launched my ship,” he pointed out.
“It’s not hard to launch a leaky canoe.”
“I’ll get you for that!”
“Chase! Stop it this instant! I’ll tickle you! I swear, I—” There was a long silence, broken only by the bubbling water, and then Gypsy’s voice, bemused and breathless.
“Well, what do you know… you can do that in a Jacuzzi.”
Chase headed into Portland after lunch to return their costumes, leaving Gypsy hard at work behind the typewriter. Half expecting to be dreamy-eyed and thoughtful after their first night together, she was more than a little surprised to find that she was able to keep her mind on writing. In fact, she turned out page after page that more than satisfied her own critical standards.
It was enough to spark a faint hope. If, somehow, Chase stirred her to write better, then perhaps the obsessions were a thing of the past. At least she could hope they were.
Daisy was delivered around four, and Gypsy was walking in a slow circle around the car when Chase pulled into the drive and began unloading the Mercedes.
“Groceries,” he announced cheerfully. “Both our cupboards are bare. I see Daisy arrived safe and sound.”
Gypsy automatically accepted the bag he handed to her. “Chase, you had her painted. And all the dents are out—not just the ones from the Mercedes.”
“Looks pretty good, doesn’t she?” Chase studied the little blue car critically. “I told them to reapply the daisy decals.”
Still staring at him, Gypsy protested, “But she’s got a whole new interior. New carpet, newly upholstered seats. Chase, the insurance didn’t pay for all of that.”
“Daisy deserves the best.” He kissed Gypsy on the nose and headed for the house.
“Why?” Gypsy asked blankly following behind. “And why haven’t you had the dent taken out of the Mercedes? It’s a sin to drive a dented Mercedes.”
“The dent is a memento,” he told her gravely, unloading the groceries in the kitchen. “And Daisy deserves the best because she introduced us. We probably wouldn’t have met otherwise; until you came along, I never paid attention to neighbors.”