Provocative Peril, page 14
Having lived with Clay for the past several months, Carolyn could better appreciate the restraint and rigid control Clay had maintained during their courtship. He was a very demonstrative person and couldn't walk past her without touching her. When she asked him how he'd managed not to touch her more often during their shared vacation he was quick to assure her—"With the greatest difficulty." His active interest in the physical side of their relationship was much more in keeping with his reputation than he'd ever admit.
They'd had a good year together. Clay had found a beautiful home in the west hills of Portland for them, explaining that it didn't matter where he was, so long as it was quiet. They had done extensive traveling during the past year, and Carolyn was grateful that she had friends to help her with her shop. Pam had as good a business sense as Carolyn, if not better, and Susie could charm customers into buying anything. Her business had continued to grow even without her presence.
She finished brushing her hair and walked into the bedroom. A glance out the window at the stormy sky reminded her that November was not a popular time to be at the coast, but it was beautiful to her. A storm was forecast for later that night, and Clay had suggested that they build a fire and watch the storm move in.
She tiptoed to the edge of the loft and looked down. Sure enough, Clay was patiently waiting for her to get ready for dinner, his nose buried in a book.
She had teased him about taking books along to read in case he got bored, but he soon convinced her that boredom wouldn't be one of their problems. He'd been right.
She reached into her garment bag and pulled out the dress she intended to wear. She had made sure that Clay didn't see it until she was ready to wear it. He had become used to the way she melted into his arms every time he touched her. Tonight she intended to remind him that she had a few powers of her own.
The dress was deceptive. It had a flesh-colored chiffon underskirt, and the overskirt, a swirl of colors from light blue to deep marine, floated around her in such a manner as to suggest that she wore absolutely nothing under the dress. When Clay took her in his arms to dance after dinner, he would find out just how little she was actually wearing.
She could hardly wait.
She checked her watch, then picked up the filmy scrap of material that was to cover her shoulders and started down the steps.
Clay caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced up. The book he was reading fell into his lap unheeded. "You provocative little wretch," he muttered under his breath. The light from upstairs silhouetted her delectable form as she came down the stairs. The impish smile she wore told him better than any words that she knew exactly how that dress would affect him.
It hadn't taken her long to discover her powers where he was concerned, Clay thought. She knew he didn't care for her wearing dresses with plunging necklines or with skirts so tight that she had trouble walking. This dress was neither. Instead, it was so sheer she might as well have been wearing a nightgown. He got up from his chair, terrified that she might be doing that very thing. On closer inspection he could see that it was, indeed, a perfectly respectable evening gown.
"Are you ready?" she asked with a smile.
"If I weren't, that dress would certainly have done the trick."
"I mean for dinner."
"Oh. Well, I suppose." She turned to go out the door in front of him. "Carolyn." She glanced over her shoulder. "What happened to the back of that dress?"
She smiled. "It doesn't have one."
"I noticed. Why not?"
"I guess the designer didn't feel it was necessary."
"What if I feel it's necessary."
"Why should you? I'm decently covered."
"Let's just say you're covered. There's nothing decent about a dress that prohibits wearing any undergarments from the waist up."
"How old did you say you were, Clay?"
"I seem to be aging rapidly." She gave him a level look. "All right, forget it."
They were ushered into the dining room and seated with quiet efficiency. Carolyn looked around the room with pleasure. It would always be a very special place to her.
She leaned over the table toward Clay, watching as his eyes reflected the flickering light of the candle on their table. "Clay, do you remember the first time you told me you loved me?"
"Certainly, why?"
"I just wondered. You know that many couples have a special place where they first admitted their love for each other?"
"That's why I thought you'd like to come back down here." He leaned over and kissed her cheek. Her skin still felt like satin, only now he could touch her whenever he felt like it. He felt like it most of the time.
"This isn't where you told me you loved me."
"Of course it is. I'd only known you a couple of weeks, but I knew how I felt."
She leaned back in her chair. "You told me you loved me while I was soaking in the tub."
He thought for a moment, then smiled. "So I did. The day you fell in the water. When I walked into that steamy room and saw you, I knew it was all over for me."
"You still don't understand, do you? Some people have a spot on the beach, others have a favorite restaurant. But our romantic spot is a bathroom! Granted, it's one of the most luxurious ones I've ever been in, still ..."
He grinned, reliving the memory. "Yes, I remember very well. I particularly appreciated the wall of mirrors in there."
She frowned slightly. "What did they have to do with anything?"
"Remember when you got out of the tub and walked over to me, modestly holding your towel in front of you?" She nodded uncertainly. "The mirrors gave me a very clear view of your delicious little derriere."
"I don't believe that. There was so much steam in the room that all the mirrors were fogged."
"If you say so."
"Weren't they?"
"What can I say?"
The waiter arrived with their salads and they fell into companionable silence.
"What are you smiling about?" asked Clay, a quizzical expression on his face.
"Oh, I was just surprised you didn't recognize the dress I'm wearing."
"How could I possibly recognize it? You've never worn it before."
"That's true, but Golden Glory did."
Golden Glory was the femme fatale in Derringer Drake's latest novel.
Clay choked on his drink. When he was able to breathe again he asked, "Are you telling me that you're wearing a dress I described in one of my books?"
Her eyes had never looked more innocent. "That's what I'm telling you. I took the book to a dressmaker so she could copy it exactly as you described it."
Clay frantically searched his memory for the particular scene where Derringer Drake met Golden Glory. It was, of course, a seduction scene. He glanced at the dress in horror as details came back to him.
Golden had needed to get information from Derringer, and she had enticed him to her apartment, plied him with drinks, then slipped into something a little more comfortable. The dress she put on was see-through. Clay peered at the part of the dress showing over the table. It was certainly that.
Golden had made sure Derringer realized she was wearing nothing under the dress but warm, silken skin.
"Carolyn!"
"Hmmm?" she asked, taking a bite of her dinner.
"Just how accurately did you copy that dress?"
"As accurately as possible. The dressmaker said you made it quite easy to copy—your description was quite graphic."
"Oh . . . my . . . God." He slid down an inch or so into his chair. He took a long drink and watched her as she continued to eat. "Why?"
She looked up. "What do you mean?"
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"I figured that since this dress was a figment of your imagination, you might want to see what it looks like—sort of a dream come true type thing."
He straightened up in the chair and leaned over. "You know very well, Carolyn," he muttered in a low voice, "that my heroines are supposed to be sexy women with little or no virtue."
"I see. It's all right for them to dress that way, but it isn't all right for your wife to dress that way."
He sighed with relief at her quick grasp of the situation. "Exactly."
She thought about it for a moment, then took a sip of her wine. "Sorry, Clay, but I'm not going to accept that silly double standard. Besides, I rather enjoy dressing the way you fantasize that your women dress." A very roguish smile appeared as she continued. "As a matter of fact, the dressmaker is now reading all of your books so she can make me a complete wardrobe. Just think of the publicity that will give you, Clay. You might find yourself with a new career as a dress designer."
The look of horror that appeared on his face caused Carolyn to give up her task of teasing him. She burst out laughing. When he looked bewildered she laughed even harder.
"You were kidding me."
She nodded, tears of merriment filling her eyes.
"That dress isn't really like the one Golden wore, is it?"
She managed to catch her breath and carefully wipe her eyes. "Not exactly. We decided to insert a modesty panel."
"Thank God for small favors." Clay drained his glass, then glared at his wife. "You know, sweetheart, you may end up causing me heart failure yet."
"Admit it, Clay, this is a very becoming dress and you know it."
"Of course I know it. So does every other male in the room."
"Would you rather I wear sackcloth?"
"Of course not. But isn't there something known as a happy medium hidden somewhere in your vocabulary?"
"Now that you mention it, I don't recall coming across it. But I'll let you know if I ever do."
"Marvelous," he muttered as he reached for his drink. "You do that."
They enjoyed the rest of their dinner in serene contentment. After dinner they went into a lounge adjoining the dining room and listened to music. Their tranquil mood lasted until they got out on the dance floor and Clay took Carolyn in his arms. Once again, he froze. It had been natural for Carolyn to flow into his arms so that she was pressed tightly against him, just as it was natural for both of Clay's arms to go around her, his hands resting lightly on her hips.
"What are you wearing under this damned dress, Carolyn," he growled into her ear.
"What does it feel like?" she whispered, her arms tightening around his neck.
"Not much."
"That's about it."
"Carolyn!"
"Clay!" she mocked.
They danced the rest of the song in silence, as well as the one after that. They moved as one, Carolyn thought dreamily as she floated around the floor in his arms. I could dance with Clay all night.
Unfortunately Clay wasn't of the same mind. After the second song, he took her hand and gently led her off the dance floor. He paused long enough to pay for the drinks that had been delivered while they were dancing, then proceeded to lead her out the door, leaving the drinks untouched.
"Don't you want to finish your drink?" Carolyn asked. Clay ignored her question. Instead, he continued to lead her down the walkway to their suite. The night was cool and Carolyn noticed for the first time that she'd forgotten to wear her coat. She'd been too intent on having him notice her dress earlier in the evening to want to cover it. Now the cold wind whipped right through her. She shivered. Clay glanced down at her and, still without speaking, slipped his jacket off and wrapped it around her, then continued toward the room.
As soon as they got inside, he strode to the fireplace and rebuilt the fire he'd started earlier. Still without speaking, he removed the pillows from the sofa and pulled the sofa apart until it was made into a bed.
What have I done? Is he so angry he's going to sleep downstairs? That was a little too reminiscent of their vacation.
She wandered over to the glass wall and stared out, unaware of the storm building outside. She sensed Clay's presence just as he slipped his jacket from her shoulders.
"You have on too many clothes, Mrs. Kenniwick," he murmured in her ear. She glanced around and caught her breath. The firelight highlighted his muscular frame as Clay stood there nude, his arousal obvious, his intentions clear.
"Oh, Clay!" She threw herself into his arms, kissing him with abandon. His hands reached for the fastener at her waist. Once it came loose he coaxed the dress from her shoulders. It fell in a heap around her ankles. Neither one of them noticed.
He picked her up and strode to the bed that was made up in front of the dancing fire. Following her down onto its surface he began to make love to her, his kisses starting a fire every place they touched.
Their coming together was volcanic. Her teasing had set off a chain reaction within him until he no longer had the strength to restrain his fierce and never-ending need of her.
The storm brewing outside their door was no more tumultuous than the one they'd stirred up inside. While the waves crashed, their lovemaking built to a crescendo until, with a soft cry, Carolyn was swept out into their own personal sea, clinging to Clay, who was with her all the way.
"See what happens to ladies who play temptress?" he murmured as they lay intertwined on top of the tangled sheets.
"Umhmm."
"Are you sure you want to continue to dress the role?"
She smiled but kept her eyes closed. "I just don't want you to become bored with me."
She could feel the chuckle that rumbled in his chest. "There's not the slightest chance of that ever happening, and you know it."
Her eyes slowly opened, and she basked in the warm glance he gave her. "Not if I can help it," she agreed.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Annette Broadrick, Provocative Peril
