Susan Johnson: Again and Again

He shot her an amused glance. “You should be on the stage.”

His casual dismissal reminded her of another night when he’d brushed off her recriminations, when her feelings hadn’t mattered. When the pain he’d caused had changed her life forever. And hadn’t she just freed herself of a man who thought only of himself? ‘You should be using your charm on someone more susceptible. You’re not having your way this time, Simon. I mean it.“

“I’m bigger,” he murmured.

“And I can scream louder. Get out.”

He continued his unbuttoning.

“Don’t say you weren’t forewarned,” she murmured, and opening her mouth, she let out shrill, high-pitched cry capable of waking up the entire inn.

In a flashing second, he lunged, clamped his hand over her mouth and a second after that he captured her flailing arms at the wrists, his grip bone-crushing. Hauling her to the edge of the bed, he leaned in close and bent his head to meet her furious gaze. “Play your prick-teasing games with someone else,” he whispered, his eyes hot with temper. “Understand?”

And then he waited as though he expected an answer.

“Go to hell.”

The sound was muffled, but audible.

“We could go together,” he said grimly, easing his hand from her mouth, one brow cocked in warning.

She knew better than to cry out, but her gaze was chill. “I’ve already been to hell with you.”

“Remember who shared your trip. That fond memory aside,” he added, caustically,“ make up your fucking mind about sex. First you say you want it, then you don’t…”

“I don’t want it.”

He exhaled in a long rush of air. “Fine. Have it your way.”

Rising to his feet, he swiftly buttoned his partially undone trousers, and moved to the door. Undeterred by his lack of clothes, he walked out, shut the door, then opened it again to reach around and pull out the key.

This time the door slammed shut with a bang.

She heard the key scrape in the lock, followed by the sound of his footsteps growing faint as he walked away.

Was she a prisoner?

It seemed an overdramatic word considering she knew Simon so well. Although, five years could account for a great many changes in a person’s life. Hers certainly had altered drastically. She was divorced now and alone… literally-locked in this room-not unlike a scene from a bad farce. She smiled at the droll thought. This would be the point where she’d put her hand to her forehead and bemoan her fate. Or better yet, devise a plan of escape. If she’d been less fatigued, she might have had the energy to formulate such a plan as would any self-respecting heroine on the stage. But she was bone tired, it was very late and after days of travel, her bed felt more enticing at the moment than her freedom.

She’d think about escape first thing in the morning.

A short time later, after having spoken to the proprietor who now understood how lucrative it would be for him to become deaf to the activities in the room at the top of the stairs, Simon reentered the bedroom, carrying his valise. He moved quietly, taking care not to wake Caroline, returning to the hall several more times to carry in a variety of items: a large copper tub, which he placed near the fire; four steaming buckets of water; a tray of food; and two bottles. Once his tasks were complete, he locked the door and tossed the key on his palm for a moment. Then he walked to the mirror hanging on the wall near the door and placed the key on top of the frame.

A precaution only. He intended to keep Caro too busy to think about leaving.

A smile slowly formed on his lips as he turned back to the bed, sweet expectation pervading his thoughts. She looked angelic with the covers pulled up over her ears, her tousled curls spread on the pillow, the flush of sleep pinking her cheeks.

He’d have to apologize, of course; he wasn’t usually such a brute. Although, if he needed cause or excuse, Caro had been as difficult and opinionated as ever.

Not that she wasn’t a delightful change from the overly willing women who normally shared his bed.

Picking up a bottle from the table, he moved to a chair near the fire. Dropping into it, he stretched out his legs and slid into a comfortable sprawl. Pulling the loosened cork from the bottle, he poured a long draft into his mouth and savored the taste of a very fine whiskey.

Life was good, he thought.

He was out of the storm, away from London, locked in with one of the most fascinating women he’d ever known.

And she hadn’t had sex for a year.

He grinned. It almost made one believe in God.

Enveloped by a rare contentment, Simon half-dozed by the fire, lassitude seeping into his pores. He hardly noticed the wind rattling the windows or the icy snow pelting the glass. Lost in reverie, the outside world seemed distant from the snug, cozy room. But as the fire burned low, the air cooled, rousing him. He shook himself awake, and came to his feet. After stoking the fire, he stripped off his trousers and moved to the bed. Lifting the covers, he slipped between the sheets and stretched out with a sigh.

He hadn’t slept in days, his departure from London sudden, his journey north in the manner of French leave-accelerated. But he’d found more urgent reason to pause and that reason was sleeping peacefully beside him.

He smiled and closed his eyes.

“You!”

The breathy exclamation brought him awake with a start; he blinked against the dawn light

“What do you think you’re doing?”

That wasn’t a question he could answer honestly when she was staring at him with such rancor. There weren’t any more rooms… with the storm and all,“ he added, hoping his tone was suitably apologetic, and then he offered her a smile that never failed to melt female hearts.

She scowled. “I’m supposed to believe that? And I know that smile, Simon. It’s not going to work.”

He didn’t belabor the point about the rooms when they both knew he could buy the entire inn if he chose. “I’ll be serious then. There actually weren’t any single rooms and I thought-well, you had suggested that we, ah…” He ran his fingers through his hair in a disarmingly shy, boyish gesture, his eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

That damnable winsomeness was capable of charming the birds from the trees, she thought; it almost made her forget he was sleeping with every woman in the world. “Look, you’re not fifteen,” she muttered, her comment eliciting a blank look. “I mean-us… this room-well… whatever I might have said, I didn’t mean it. You’re going to have to leave.”

“Not a chance.”

She should take offense, but his voice was hushed and low, temptation in his gaze and even while she knew better, it seemed as though she’d never been away. But suddenly a door banged downstairs, breaking the spell and she remembered why she despised him. He’d wakened with a woman in his bed too many times-too many to count-and in her saner moments she didn’t want to be added to that tally again. “If you won’t leave, I will.” Lifting the quilt, she began to roll out, squealed as the blood-chilling cold struck her and quickly rolled back.

“I’ll stoke the fire.” He began rising.

Torn between comfort and principle, she struggled with her conscience.

That icy air can leave one speechless, can’t it?“ he murmured with a grin, turning back to tuck the quilt under her chin.

She glared at him.

There are times when men and women aren’t completely equal,“ he said with a touch of irony.

“I’d be a fool to argue with you, wouldn’t I?”

“Perhaps we have areas of agreement after all,” he replied, his gaze amused and with a wink, he rose from the bed. He walked across the room to the fireplace as though he were impervious to the cold. As though his breath wasn’t visible. As though he wore more than his cambric undershorts.