Dare Me, page 20
He knew she never took baths. She hadn't even liked the whirlpool he'd installed on the balcony outside the Georgetown condominium they'd shared. She'd never been one for a long soak, much preferring the scalding blast of a shower that practically
burned the sweat and dirt of a day's work off her skin. Growing up in a household with four brothers—two on either side of the age scale—and parents who thought one bathroom was sufficient for their progeny, she imagined she hadn't had a bath since she'd been a baby. And Dante wanted her in one now?
"What do you really want from me?" she asked, suspicious and suddenly angry. She'd worked damned hard all day, and while she couldn't deny that she'd slept soundly after indulging Dante's requests last night, sated with amazing food and lulled into relaxation while dancing, she suddenly felt wired and antsy, likely because in order to take a bath, she'd have to get naked.
And yet, she suspected he still didn't want to have sex. His game was both transparent and, unfortunately, effective. He wanted her to drop her guard. With her senses and libido primed to the point where she'd forget how he betrayed her and remember only how much he pleasured her, how much they'd once meant to each other, he'd have her right where he wanted her.
He was setting himself up for a huge disappointment, though judging by the confident gleam in his fathomless gray eyes, he had no idea how his plan would fail.
"I want you to relax."
"I don't want to relax," she insisted, wondering what compelled her to argue when the inevitable was as clear as the water had been before he'd tossed in the bath salts. She'd have to give in—at least to a point. Now that she understood his plan, however, she'd find a defense. Hopefully soon. Because little by little, she realized a nine-year-old past hurt simply wasn't enough.
Dante turned the basket over the tub so that the last of the rose petals floated into the water. "You'd probably enjoy relaxing, if you had any idea how to do it."
She ran her hands through her hair. "Let's not play games, Dante. We've been apart for a long time. You have no idea how I spend my free time."
Dante grinned indulgently. "Do you really need me to send for your dossier?"
She huffed impatiently. No, she didn't. Because the truth was, except for sharing an occasional glass of wine with a fellow agent in the bistro two blocks away from T-45's headquarters in Paris, she rarely allowed her mind to shut down long enough to evoke the true benefits of relaxation. Not in the shower. Not when she swam laps in the pool or when she worked out on the technically advanced elliptical trainer she committed to for an hour every day. Even in her dreams, she conducted intense but methodical searches for objects that were both unnamed and undefined, never allowing her complete rest from either her psyche or her conscious life.
And now, he wanted her to chuck all that and step into a steamy, fragrant tub of water and soak while he watched?
She untied her robe. "Turn around," she instructed.
Surprisingly, he did as he was told. She opened her mouth to question his obedience, but then decided not to challenge good fortune. Instead, she stripped and stepped boldly into the milky water.
Only after she caught the glimmer of his smile in the reflective glass of two antique mirrors—one hung just a few feet away from her and one behind—did she realize her gullibility.
"You have become quite the voyeur in my absence," she challenged, refusing to drop instantly down into the water just to avoid his gaze. He'd seen her naked before. She'd seen him. Despite the flush simmering through her skin, she wouldn't surrender to her discomfort, not when such a move would mean more than she wanted to admit to him about his effect on her.
"How can a man resist when the view is so compelling?"
He didn't turn around, but continued to watch her through the cross reflection of the two mirrors. Slowly, the rush of warmth from her blush dissipated. Standing in the hot water, the air above suddenly chilled. When her nipples started to peak, she eased into the hot water.
He clucked his tongue in disappointment.
Immersed to just below her shoulders, Macy couldn't help but feel completely exposed when Dante neared, then stopped. He lingered just a foot or so away, his boot perched on the edge of the fountain, which she realized was tinkling with a soft cool music that invited her to close her eyes and breathe deeply. In the steaming hot water, the sweet rose scents swirling around her weakened her. Her head swam, so she braced her hands on the sides of the tub to keep from losing her balance.
"What did you do?" she asked.
"Nothing, yet."
"I feel light-headed," she admitted. If she'd been dealing with a T-45 operative instead of the head of the Arm, she would suspect he'd drugged the water or perhaps even the perfume. But the Arm generally didn't operate with such chemical slyness. It tended to barge in, take what it wanted and then clean up the mess afterward—much like the man who ran the organization.
Though he didn't seem to be working in bulldozer mode tonight, did he? Even his voice contained a soft, lazy drawl unlike any she'd ever heard from him, even while undercover.
He picked up a large seashell from the edge of the fountain beside her. "Light-headed? That's called relaxation, Macy. I told you last night I wouldn't get you drunk. I also won't drug you. When you return to me, you'll do so of your own volition."
She snorted, but without half the derision she'd intended. With the seashell, he scooped and poured the hot, scented water over her shoulders. The sensation was smooth and milky, as if he'd doused her in a melted emollient.
She released her hands from the sides of the tub.
"I won't return to you," she said, her voice soft with drowsiness.
"Hmm," he replied, pouring another shell full of water across her shoulders.
Arguing further would make no difference. She was in no position to convince him of anything. At this moment, she couldn't convince herself that the sky was blue in the daytime. Slowly but surely, her mind grew too befuddled to form a single coherent thought. When she forced herself to think, her focus fell to the bed in the master suite—their next destination. She found herself anticipating the moment when she crawled into those cool, high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
"What are you thinking about?"
She shook her head. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Very much."
"Sorry," she said with a sigh, leaning back against the porcelain. "My body is yours to command, not my mind."
This time, he poured the water across her neck, so that the flow teased the tips of her breasts.
"Does that mean if I tell you to touch yourself, you'll comply?"
Her eyes flashed open. She'd walked right into this one, hadn't she?
"Is that what it'll take to get you off?" she asked.
He chuckled. "I'm not interested in my own pleasure tonight, Macy. Though I'll admit that watching anything you do affects me." He poured another stream of warm water across her collarbone. "How does the water feel? Hot enough for you?"
At least he'd gotten that part right. The temperature would likely scald anyone else, but the heat felt both familiar and new to her at the same time. "Perfect."
"And the scent? I added an essential oil to the bath, which will account for the perfume and slick feel of the water as it sluices over your skin."
She moved ever so slightly, so that the flow of water fulfilled his sensual promise, but she focused on the truth to keep her antagonism going. She couldn't give in to him—not mentally. Not emotionally.
Well, she could, but would she hate herself in the morning?
"I've never been one for roses," she said.
"Really? I could have sworn the scent would evoke some sweet memories for you. Perhaps I miscalculated."
Hell. Dante never miscalculated, and the moment he mentioned sweet memories, her mind spun back to the past, long before they'd met, to a summer she'd spent with her grandmother at her home in Savannah, to the rose garden she tended with constant and loving care. Macy had been no more than ten years old, allowed for the first time to visit her father's parents without her four raucous brothers to muck up the landscape. For two solid months, she'd helped her grandmother tend her prized flowers, listened to her stories, spent hours wandering the landscapes beside the creek that ran through the property her father's family had owned for over a century. She didn't remember telling Dante about that summer, but she knew she must have. And he'd evoked that innocent, faraway time with a not-so-innocent bath in a luscious arboretum. Damn him.
She shifted in the tub, prepared to fight her Benedict Arnold muscles and get out, but he placed his hand on her shoulder and gently eased her back into the water. He leaned forward so that his words teased the tendrils that formed at the nape of her neck.
"Relax, Macy. Let the silkiness of the water awaken you. I'd forfeit my entire holdings to be in the water right now, surrounding you, penetrating you, experiencing every sweet curve and crevice of your body."
She attempted to resist the power of his suggestion, but couldn't. His desire was too evident, too overwhelming, too delicious to ignore. In the past, Dante had always made her feel desirable, but never to this extreme. Never to the point where he'd expose his own weakness for romantic nostalgia in order to prove the depth of his passion. Never to the point where he'd ask her to expose her own weaknesses, too many to count.
She couldn't resist running her hands over her legs beneath the water, up her thighs to the flat plane of her belly or the round curves of her breasts. Despite her arousal, her nipples couldn't fight the intense heat of the water to remain erect. But one brush from her fingertips and they tightened with intense, but lazy, tightness.
She hummed as the sweet sensation eased through her body like slow molasses poured over hotcakes, sugary and thick with anticipation.
Dante knelt beside the tub.
"How smooth is your skin?"
"Like silk," she replied, continuing to run her hands over her body, awakening nerve endings unaccustomed to such delightful decadence.
"What about your muscles? If I touched you now, would you jump out of your skin?"
She shook her head languidly. "Impossible. I'm not sure all my muscles even work anymore. You won't let me drown, will you?" she asked, slipping farther into the water so that only her head and chin were exposed to the air.
"Never, love. I wish I could see you, but the ripples in the water are enough to make me hard. You're touching your breasts now, aren't you?"
She'd hardly realized how hypnotic the sensations could be, her thumbs drawing lazy circles around her areolae, her fingers toying with the buoyant flesh of her breasts, creating a warm cocoon of sweet sensation.
She hummed her response.
"I can't imagine your nipples hardening with all that wet heat surrounding you. They must be so pliable, so sensitive to the slightest touch."
Willingly, she accepted his suggestion. He was right. She had to pluck hard to bring her nipples to full extension, but the sizzling sensations that shot through her blood as a result made the nips of pain entirely worthwhile. Between her legs, her feminine lips pulsed with need, beckoning her attention.
She shifted in the water, exposing a breast long enough for a silky rose petal to adhere to her skin. Her sharp intake of breath matched Dante's. He was watching from so close—and yet, he didn't touch.
She should have opened her eyes to look into his and gauge the level of his reaction, but she. didn't dare. She knew what she'd see—and she didn't want to face such intense need. Not when she was feeling the same power on her own. If she looked and saw the kind of desire she imagined he felt, she'd likely pull him into the tub with her. A girl could take only so much teasing without some release.
The minute her fingers slipped between her folds of flesh, she found her clit and boldly stroked herself to madness. Only when she gasped for that final, life-sustaining breath did she realize that Dante's lips were on hers, giving her more than she bargained for, more than she thought she'd ever need.
And yet, not enough.
With a splash, she wrapped her arms around him and drew him near, cooing as he intoxicated her with the long, languid kiss. She wanted hot and heavy— and again, he denied her. He kissed her softly, toying with her tongue with only enough energy to bring her back to earth with gentle persuasion.
When he pulled away, she looked into his eyes. What she saw there made her gasp. How could he hold back, when his gaze betrayed the depth of his need?
"Make love to me," she said, knowing his game could go no farther.
"No," he said, standing and stepping back, creating a chasm of space.
She attempted to stand. Her muscles wavered, but Dante jumped forward and braced her with hands on her elbows. She thanked his quick reflexes with a hungry smile. "You want to make love to me," she said.
"Clearly. But we're not ready."
"Because I didn't come to you? Drop the game, Dante. We're both here. We're both incredibly aroused. Imagine how hot and slick I am right now. Imagine how easy your sex will slip into mine."
She'd gone too far. She recognized the moment his control nearly snapped, when instead of yanking her out of the tub and flinging her on the soft grass of the arboretum to finish what he'd started, he grabbed the robe he'd tossed across a lawn chair, nearly ripping the fabric in his haste to cover her. He lifted her into his arms, but refused eye contact until he'd pounded up the stairs and kicked open the door of the master suite.
Finally! They'd do the deed and expend the last of their mutual attraction, ending this game of sexual teasing against sins from the past. He laid her on the bed, leaving her to open the robe as he circled around to the footboard, his eyes blazing, his nostrils flaring with unchecked lust.
Then, he was gone. She blinked, unsure that she'd actually seen him turn and leave. She struggled off the bed, her muscles still wavering from the hot water in the tub and the intensity of her self-induced orgasm, and staggered toward the door.
Just in time to hear the click.
She sagged against the carved wood frame, unwilling to shout for her release when she knew he'd never comply, though she pounded her fist on the
wood once, an impotent but necessary gesture. Exhausted and angry, but mostly swimming in a wash of desires she needed to exercise out of her system, she shifted until her back rested against the door. The room glowed with candles, flickering seductive fingers of light over the golden bed sheets and intricately woven satin duvet. She staggered back to the bed and tossed the robe aside, climbing between the covers naked. Maybe he'd come to her later tonight, when he'd found some control for the wild emotions she'd caught in his eyes.
Or maybe not. Either way, by tomorrow, she'd end his game, if it was the last thing she did.
"He's here."
Dante snapped his attention away from the monitors to the speaker on his desk. "Show him up."
After flipping the switch so that the image of Macy searching the billiards room instantly disappeared, he slid his chair back, retrieved his jacket from the brass peg on the wall and slipped his arms into the silk-lined garment. A tremor of anticipation ratcheted through his system. Just a decade ago, a meeting such as this would have been unheard of, but after receiving the urgent communique from T-45, Dante decided that the time had come for change, especially under the current circumstances. As far as Dante knew, Abercrombie Marshall had not returned to the States since he'd left the Arm, a frustrated African-American agent with skills coveted by every foreign agency in the spy biz except the one he'd left.
Though Dante had never met the man, he had the highest respect for him based on extensive data—not the least of which was the fact that Marshall had not only gained Macy's high opinion, but also he'd been the one to finally give the woman her due.
Dante also had no doubt that Macy was the reason Marshall had come in person. Their arrangement had been unorthodox, to say the least, especially when a major incident like a nuclear attack was at stake.
Marshall entered the room without hesitation, barely waiting for the agent assigned to open the door to move out of the way. Tall and broad shouldered, Abercrombie Marshall wore his hair sheared short, without a single sprinkle of gray at the temples. His eyes, dark and assessing, crinkled at the corners and his full-lipped mouth melted easily into a friendly smile. He held out his hand, which Dante accepted.
"Mr. Marshall," Dante said. "I'm honored to meet you."
"Probably more like shocked as hell, but I hear your manners wouldn't allow you to speak so freely."
Dante laughed, releasing the man's hand after a hearty shake. With a welcoming gesture, he directed his guest toward one of two comfortable leather chairs he kept in front of his desk. "My manners have been exaggerated, sir, I assure you. Plain speaking is simply a lost art in our business."
Marshall sat and Dante did the same in the chair next to his. He had no reason to put on some show of superiority with Marshall by resuming his place behind his desk.
"I want to speak with my agent," Marshall demanded.
"I've done nothing to block communications with you. She's sent regular updates."
"Which you've monitored," Marshall pointed out. "Is she a prisoner?"
Dante didn't hide his shock. "Absolutely not, sir. She's working hard, though with frustrating results so far," Dante said, privately noting the double entendre. What he and Macy had shared over the past two days had given new depth to the word frustrating. "You may see her immediately, of course."
"Of course," Marshall acknowledged, with a gleam in his eye that told Dante that at this point, he'd see Macy if he wanted to, with or without Dante's permission. "And I will, but not yet. I have a private matter I wish to discuss first."
