Authors: Brooke Hastings
"Have you tried it?" one of them asked her.
Randy shook her head. "I'm here on business myself, but I
just got in today. I didn't feel like sitting alone in my room, so I
thought I'd go downstairs to eat."
In the end one of the men went over to talk to the desk
clerk, who steered them to an Italian restaurant about twenty minutes
away by car. Randy didn't hesitate to accept an invitation to join them
for dinner—she recognized the name of their company, and both
of them looked completely respectable.
Given her troubles with Luke she didn't expect that the
evening would turn out to be particularly pleasant
—especially not with a pair of computer salesmen as
companions—but she wound up eating more than she should have
and laughing at impossibly corny stories. After dinner the three of
them went for a ride around the city, so that it was close to eleven by
the time Randy thanked them and said goodnight.
She was in the middle of undressing when the phone rang.
Luke? she wondered. Or perhaps her father, checking to make sure that
she was sleeping in her own room.
Her uncertain, "Hello?" was met by a peremptory, "I've
been calling you every ten minutes for the last hour. Where in hell
have you been?"
Never had a fit of temper been so welcome. "At dinner,"
Randy said matter-of-factly. Her lips curved into a triumphant little
smile.
"I checked downstairs. You weren't there."
She couldn't resist handing Luke back some of the grief
he'd given
her
lately. "I went out," she said.
"Where to?" he demanded.
"An Italian restaurant. It's about twenty minutes away by
car."
"By car," he repeated. "You took a cab?"
"A rental car. It belonged to the man I was with."
"Oh." It was the curtest "Oh" that Randy had ever
encountered; it was obviously time to explain.
"Actually there were two men, Luke. I met them by the
elevator on my way downstairs to eat. I happened to mention that I was
alone and they invited me to join them. Both of them were my father's
age. Now what have you been calling me about?"
"I wanted to make sure you were okay." He sounded nettled
that he'd cared. "I thought that maybe you'd be upset."
How perceptive, Randy thought. "And if I was?" she asked
aloud. "What did you plan to do about it?"
"I—I don't know. Apologize, I guess."
Suddenly Luke's reaction was no longer either amusing or
exasperating. His tone was filled with such uncharacteristic
defensiveness and uncertainty that Randy's heart softened, then
completely melted. The least she could do would be to offer him some
help. "I could phone room service for some brandy for two," she said
softly. "It's a little cold and lonely in here."
There was a strained silence lasting a good ten seconds
before Luke finally answered. "I can't," he muttered. "You know I want
to, but I can't." He hung up the phone.
Randy could cheerfully have ripped her own phone out of
the wall, carried it down the hall to Luke's room and thrown it at him.
What was a woman supposed to do with a man who checked up on her like a
jealous lover and then refused to even touch her? Did he really believe
that they could continue to work together without the sparks of mutual
attraction flaring into passion? Perhaps they could, Randy admitted,
but only if she were willing to play the game Luke's way. And she
wasn't.
She'd brought along the only really sensual nightgown she
owned, a graduation gift from Linda two years before. It was
white—"For purity," Linda had teased—with a lace
bodice and ankle-length silk skirt. Randy's pulses were beating a
little too quickly as she slipped it on and covered it with the
matching robe. She grabbed her key on the way out of her room and
pulled the door firmly shut behind her.
What happened when she knocked on Luke's door wasn't
entirely a surprise to her. Luke wouldn't open it up until he knew who
was there, but when Randy identified herself he brusquely told her to
go back to bed. Since his hoarse tone of voice all but announced that
it was the last thing in the world he really wanted, Randy had no
intention of listening to him.
"Luke, please," she murmured, willing herself to sound
miserably sick. "That Italian food—I must have eaten too much
of it."
"So take an antacid tablet," he said.
"I don't have—oohhh." Randy cut herself off with
a heartbreaking moan, dropping to her knees and clutching her stomach
in pretended agony. That was the way Luke found her when he hastily
opened the door, wearing only the robe she remembered from Maine.
"Okay, just take it easy, honey," he said as he helped her
up. They started toward the bed, Randy leaning on Luke for support.
"Tell me what you ate," he ordered.
"Uh, antipasto, minestrone, a pasta dish and prawns with a
tomato and garlic sauce…" Randy doubled over again, as if
pain precluded a further inventory.
"No wonder you're sick," Luke muttered as he eased her
down on her side. "I'll see what I can find."
He walked off into the bathroom, returning a few moments
later with a couple of chewable tablets and a glass of water. Randy,
figuring they certainly couldn't harm her, gingerly sat up and accepted
them, a look of adoring gratitude on her face. Fortunately the tablets
tasted almost like candy, and the water washed away the chalky
aftertaste.
Luke, who was sitting beside Randy on the bed now,
remarked a little irritably, "Obviously I don't affect your appetite
the way Raley did."
Randy decided to ignore that. "I feel a little better
already," she said, "but it's so hot in here, Luke. Do you think I
could have a fever?"
As Luke felt her forehead she untied the sash of her robe
and slipped it off. His eyes dropped to the cross nestled between her
breasts and then lower, to what the lace of her gown so cleverly
emphasized. "Your temperature is normal," he said in a slightly
strangled voice, "but too much more of this and
mine
won't be."
Randy fluffed up a pillow and lay back against it. "Would
you rub my stomach for me, Luke? It hurts."
He did as she requested, but not without a certain inner
struggle. His gentle fingers, though initially quite impersonal, turned
caressing as he continued to stroke her skin. The warmth of his hand
seemed to suffuse the surrounding area, especially when his fingers
wandered just a little too low.
He abruptly pulled away his hand, and then, as if unable
to help himself, started to finger the gold cross Randy wore, branding
her in the process. "I used to think how inappropriate this was in
Maine," he murmured, "but it isn't, not really. It's a beautiful piece
of jewelry. Who gave it to you?" He traced the path of the chain with
his index finger, then dropped his hand.
"Lin did. It was a present for helping her with her
apartment in Cambridge. I'd decided to stay instead of going to New
Hampshire, and it was easier not to tell my father that I'd changed my
plans because I was leaving soon anyway. Linda went on a trip with
Roger the next morning, but I stayed in the apartment to wait for the
last delivery—and you, of course."
All the time Randy was talking she was wondering how Luke
could manage to sit less than a foot away from her, looking at her with
desire burning in his eyes, yet do nothing more than fondle her
necklace. She was aching to be in his arms.
"How do you feel?" he finally asked.
"Okay."
"Then you'd better put your robe back on and go."
But you don't want me to, Randy thought. I know you don't.
Totally unpracticed in the role of temptress, she swallowed nervously
and shook her head. "My head just started to hurt," she said.
"No it didn't." Luke stood up, reaching for his lighter
and cigarettes, which were sitting on the night table by the bed. Randy
noticed that his hand was trembling as he lit up a cigarette. "It
doesn't hurt any more than your stomach did. Am I right?"
"You're always right, aren't you?" Despite the husky
statement Randy could barely think straight by now. She wanted Luke so
much she was shaking from it, and if he really wanted her to leave he
was going to have to throw her out.
With a convulsive little shudder she slowly pulled down
first one slender strap of her nightgown, and then the second. Luke
stood and watched impassively, staring into her eyes, his only movement
a jerky drag on his cigarette. When she slid down the bodice to reveal
firm, high breasts and dusky, erect nipples his gaze dropped to the
floor and he cursed very softly.
He seemed to be in severe pain. "Do you make a habit of
this sort of thing?" he groaned.
Randy wanted to fling herself into his arms, but even more
than that, she wanted to entice him into making the first move. "What
kind of thing do you mean?" she asked.
"Seduction." He looked up at her, the hint of a twinkle in
his eyes. "Torturing helpless men." His lips twitched just a fraction.
"Driving them so crazy that their common sense atrophies and every inch
of their bodies starts to ache."
When his smile broadened Randy knew he'd given up.
"Actually," she said ingenuously, "it's the first time I've tried it.
How did I do?"
"Let's just say that you're one hell of a beginner," Luke
drawled, stubbing out his cigarette.
Randy expected him to sit down next to her and pull her
into his arms, but instead he walked around to the other side of the
bed, lazily removed his robe, and lay down on top of the covers. "It
seems to me," he said, "that the least I can do for you is to give you
the opportunity to practice a little more."
Incredulous at his self-control, Randy blurted out, "How
can you stand it? I'm ready to explode, Luke."
"It's called delayed gratification," he answered with a
grin. "I know I can make love to you as many times as I want to
tonight, so waiting becomes a very pleasant kind of agony." He took her
wrist to coax her closer. "I'm all yours," he drawled. "Experiment all
you want."
Randy knew every hard sinew of his body by touch, but
she'd never really studied him with her eyes. He was magnificent, she
thought, running her fingers over his muscled arms. And he was also
right about waiting. Knowing what was to come, she could manage to live
through another few minutes of frustration.
She continued to teasingly explore, massaging each calf
and thigh in turn, running her fingers over his shoulders and chest,
and tracing the planes of his face. Luke lay there and watched, so
unnaturally still that if it hadn't been for the film of perspiration
on his body and the fact that his heart was thumping like he'd just run
the hundred-yard dash, Randy might have wondered whether her closeness
was having the effect he'd earlier alluded to. Except, of course, that
it obviously was.
Touching him so freely had excited her as much as it had
excited him. She forgot her inhibitions in her eagerness to goad him
into losing his self-control and allowed her mouth to continue what her
hands had begun. Luke moaned as she captured a nipple with her lips,
his hand reaching out to find her breast and gently knead the flesh. As
his fingers became more and more demanding the world seemed to recede,
leaving only Luke's body to give pleasure to. Randy was nuzzling his
stomach now, the feel of his hands on her inner thighs driving her
wild, all but ordering her to continue. The more intimate his touch
became, the greater the liberties that she herself began to take. And
then Luke pulled her around and replied in kind, until the need to give
and the need to take mingled and intensified, reaching a mindless fever
pitch before both were finally fulfilled.
It was the last time that night that Luke would bother
very much with delayed gratification. Time and again he reached out for
her, making love to her with all the fiery passion he had shown in
Maine but also with a tenderness and caring that hadn't been there
before. Randy woke up again early in the morning and stole back to her
own room, wanting to avoid the risk of running around in her nightgown
once people were up and about. As she snuggled back into bed she
wondered how she could possibly have failed to realize how much she
loved Luke. Her feelings were so much deeper for Luke than they had
ever been for Sean. In addition to physical attraction she felt respect
and admiration, and also a selfless concern that was entirely new to
her. It seemed impossible for any human being to be as happy as she
felt at that moment.
At first it didn't occur to Randy that Luke's "Good
morning", when he phoned the room a few hours later, sounded a little
off, but when he invited her to join him for breakfast in his room the
strained discomfort in his voice finally penetrated. She refused to
panic while she showered and dressed, yet when she walked into his room
and saw only regret and guilt in his eyes, anxiety almost got the
better of her. It was an effort to smile good morning, to sit down at
the table and pretend to calmly sip her juice when she felt like
choking on it.
"I'm crazy about you," he began. "You
do
realize that."
A statement like that had to have a "but". Randy
resignedly waited for it, and it wasn't long in coming. "But I've been
up since you left this morning, trying to figure out what to do, and
I'm just not getting anywhere. I wish I could ask you to marry me,
Miranda, but I just can't. Not yet."
"Not yet" were two of the sweetest words in the English
language, Randy decided. Things weren't nearly as bad as she'd feared.
"I'm not asking for a proposal," she told him. "I realize we don't know
each other very well, except, well, physically." She blushed slightly.
"Exactly. The fact is, I don't know you at all. There was
'Linda' in Maine, 'Miranda' in New York and somebody else here in
Philadelphia. Sometimes I wonder if there
is
a
real Miranda Dunne, or only the roles she plays."