Jennifer Greene - Conquer the Memories

Craig’s head immediately whipped around the door, annoyance radiating from him even before he’d recognized the source of irritation. The source promptly vaulted in his general direction. “Hi,” she said simply, offering a secret wink for Mrs. Heath, and seconds later closed the door on John, Mrs. Heath and the rest of the world.

For at least an instant, she had one stunned husband on her hands. One had to take all the breaks one was offered in life. She stole a quick glance, only long enough to see what she already knew. Craig’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, there were hollows under his eyes, his hair looked as if his hands had run through it a dozen times that day, and his tie was askew. He looked, quite simply, exhausted. A man determined to drive himself too hard and too long.

“We’re going out to dinner,” she announced blithely. “I don’t want to hear any arguments. We’re going to drink a little wine, eat a very expensive steak…”

“Sonia? When on earth did you get here? How-?”

“At the Red Baron. We haven’t been there in ages. And if I were you, I wouldn’t put my hand anywhere near that briefcase, because you are definitely not taking it home tonight.” She spotted his suit jacket on the chair where he’d undoubtedly thrown it that morning. She moved to pick it up, then changed her mind. “This jacket is too hot,” she continued in the same brisk tone, “but we have to do a little something about your appearance before we go. Not much,” she assured him, with slightly more gentleness.

Her pulse was frantic as she approached him with quick steps, staring at his throat as she rebuttoned the collar of his shirt. His body was warm against her palm. Warm and still and tense. She tugged at his tie.

“I don’t want to hear any excuses,” she said severely. “If the whole place falls apart because you’re gone for a couple of hours, then it’s just going to have to fall apart. Mrs. Heath can order everyone around while you’re gone. She’s already agreed.” Sonia was having a terrible time with the tie, primarily because her fingers were all thumbs. She darted a quick glance up, to see how Craig was taking all the bossing.

She relaxed, her fingers suddenly managing the tie just fine. His weary eyes had a slight hint of exasperation, but his upper lip was twitching. “I get the idea I’m supposed to feel kidnapped,” he said mildly.

She stood back, hands on hips, pretending to make sure the tie was straight, knowing she couldn’t care less about the tie. “You’ll be lucky if you get off with a kidnapping,” she informed him.

“Now I’m really shaking in my shoes.”

She chuckled. Godzilla couldn’t make that man shake in his shoes, and Craig was just getting around to noticing her dress. Actually, he seemed to be noticing everything but the dress. She could feel the warmth of his gaze on her bare legs and bare throat and bare back as if it were the heat of the sun. Hurriedly, she picked up his jacket. “I’ll carry this.”

“Would you mind,” he asked gravely, “if I make a single phone call first?”

She shook her head. “Absolutely no phone calls. Any good kidnapping has to be pulled off clean. Give an inch and next thing you know the victim will be asking for ransom.”

“You sound quite experienced.”

“I started young in a life of crime.” She hesitated at the door, her tone abruptly, softly, Sonia again. “Craig, for heaven’s sake, if you really need to make a phone call-”

He made a swift motion toward the phone and then stopped, turning back to her. “It’ll wait,” he said gravely. “There’s no way I’m going to be late for my own kidnapping.” He opened the door.

The Red Baron was Cold Creek’s long-established hideaway for a nice seductive dinner. Candles set in red glass decorated every table; dark paneled walls and thick carpeting and tasteful oils on the walls added to a serenely luxurious atmosphere. A pocket-sized dance floor in the far corner included a pianist and bass player; the music was muted and low.

Craig glanced up as the busboy took their plates. When the man had gone, Craig watched Sonia lean over and tip a little more wine into his glass. That was his third, and she had barely touched her first.

At the moment, he was bone-weary, sated from an absolutely delicious dinner and utterly intrigued by the lady across from him. Sooner or later, he would figure out what she was up to.

The clues to the mystery were most interesting. The look of her would have seduced a monk, she’d chosen the most romantic place in town and she’d been plying him with wine. Furthermore, she’d set out to relax him over dinner as if it were her life’s purpose. The talk had all been simple and easy, her low, sweet laughter wafting toward him at intervals, her teasing sassy. He could smell her perfume; when she leaned toward him her bodice flirted with his eyes; and as she talked, those eyelashes of hers floated up and down with all the skill of a practiced flirt.

All those clues seemed conclusive. He hadn’t been fooled by her act from the time she’d excused herself for a second trip to the ladies’ room. Sonia was nervous. Those fluttering eyelashes shielded eyes that remarkably kept missing direct contact. All that subtly offered sexuality was a blind.

A blind that was working with aching intensity inside his bloodstream. He’d been aroused from the minute they sat down, and he hadn’t even touched her. She had shied away from his touch; her game was all in look and scent and the low, soothing melody of her voice.

Deprivation was doing strange things to his rational thinking processes. He wanted his wife. He also knew that the moment he tried to make love to her again, that living nightmare of his would be back. He’d tried working endless hours; he’d tried avoiding her; and he’d tried giving himself time. Nothing had worked. Guilt seeped into him like an insidious poison. There wasn’t even a ghost of a chance of allowing himself his own sexual release.

Only that same physical deprivation was starting to add up to a little mountain of agony. It was almost funny. His hormones hadn’t been this active when he was a teenager.

He listened to her laugh at something he said, a sparkle of wine glistening on her bottom lip, her aquamarine eyes glowing like melted jewels, and wondered vaguely what she would do if he took her outside, leaned her up against a building, slipped those smooth, silky skirts up…

“Do you want more coffee?” he asked calmly as the waiter hovered over them.

She shook her head.

He watched her eyes dart to the dance floor for the third time. She wouldn’t ask; she knew he was tired. Good. There was no way on earth he wanted to risk touching her at all. No sane man invited torture.

“Craig?” She parted her lips to say something. It was the third time she’d done that, yet again she seemed to change her mind about what she wanted to say. “Darn it. I suppose we should be going home,” she remarked lightly.

“Not quite yet.” He set his napkin down and stood up. “Not yet,” he murmured again. A pulse flickered dangerously in his neck as he motioned her toward the dance floor. Her delighted smile made something in his jaw tighten. His palm lightly brushed the small of her back as he guided her around tables, so lightly that his fingertips only barely burned from the contact of the cool, silky fabric of her dress.

He meant to keep her at arm’s length when they were on the dance floor. The song was a love song, but not a favorite, unfamiliar, nothing that stirred any nostalgic, suggestive longings. He turned her to him and raised his hand simply to take hers…and instead found that damned errant hand sliding up her bare arm to her neck. And then the other one, just as damned, gliding around to the bare flesh of her back.