Tempest in Eden (7 page)

"Do you like it?" she asked tremulously, her throat tight with emotion.

"Yes, yes," he said earnestly. "I admire an artist who can reflect light off water that way and make it look so real."

She strangled on an outraged cry. He was admiring the painting, the technique. All the appreciation glowing in his eyes was for the artist, not the model. She stared at him, bewildered and wounded, but he didn't even notice. He was calmly turning the pages of the book.

"Here's another interesting study," he commented.

Shay dropped her eyes from his face to the black and white photograph. She lay stretched out on her back, knees raised. One languid arm had been lifted. The back of her other hand rested on her forehead. The photographer had backlit her so that the black outline of her body was in stark contrast to the bright light behind it.

The profile of her face and chin were clearly defined before they blended into the silhouette of her throat. The shape of her breast, the impudence of its nipple, was outlined in startling detail. Her stomach dipped into a graceful hollow. Beyond that, the softly swelling mound of her femininity blended into the top of her thighs.

It was a beautiful photograph of the female anatomy in silhouette. The anonymity of it made it all the more beautiful. It belonged to all women.

"This photographer often uses that backlighting effect, doesn't he?" Ian commented.

Who cared? She wanted him to notice the woman in the photograph, not the damn lighting. "Yes."

"I thought so. I've seen some of his other works. Did he do this one, too?"

The last photograph in the folder was the most recent, also the most suggestive. It had been shot for a perfume ad for the European market. It was far too bold for American magazines and billboards. It, too, was in black and white, but this time she was fully lighted. The camera was above her.

Her hair was spread out behind her head on black velvet. Her face was turned away from the camera, her chin almost resting on her shoulder. The photograph had been cropped to show only one breast covered with a sheer white veil. Through it, her nipple was enticing, yet oddly vulnerable.

But it was her expression that captured the attention of the viewer. It was sublime. Her eyes were closed, her brows slightly puckered, her moist, shiny lips parted in a hint of a smile. Its message was clear: this woman was in the throes of passion fulfilled.

Actually at the time the photographer had said, "When we finish, Shay, I'll treat you to a hot fudge sundae. Think of it. Gooey chocolate, whipped cream, almonds, vanilla ice cream."

His camera had been clicking all the time he talked. She closed her eyes and licked her lips in anticipation since she hadn't eaten that day. When she heard his whispered, "My God," she knew she'd given him just the expression he'd been striving for all afternoon.

Ian studied the photograph for a long time. Shay's heart stood still. She had a wild vision of him slinging the picture, the book, and his conscience aside, grabbing her to him, and devouring her mouth with his. She saw her fingers plowing through his thick black hair to hold him fast, saw herself reclining at his insistence on the soft cushions of the couch, saw him stretching out above her, saw his hands urgently but gently peeling away her clothes. Blood pounded through her veins as her fantasy enlarged and she saw his hands exploring her, saw him raining hot kisses on her naked skin. She wet her lips.

Ian stirred, and she held her breath. Hold me, kiss me, she wanted to cry out to him.

Instead he carefully stacked all the photographs neatly and closed the cover of the portfolio. "They're all very good. I'm sure you have a long career ahead of you—provided you don't get fat or anything."

She wanted to scream, to weep. But she only sat there stupefied as he pushed himself to his feet, stretched, and yawned broadly. "Boy, I'm tired. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed. Don't forget to turn out all the lights before you come up. Good night."

Chapter Four

«
^
»

S
he sat in the empty room, feeling more alone than she had ever felt in her life. Was it too much to ask that they indulge in a little harmless kissing? Would that have offended his stern principles so very badly?

Irritated now, she picked up the portfolio and dumped it onto the table near the front door so she wouldn't forget it in the morning. "Thanks for nothing," she muttered.

Lacking anything better to do, and not yet ready to go upstairs, she wandered into the kitchen for a glass of milk. She spied the bottle of burgundy on the counter. It was much more appetizing than a glass of milk. Pouring a liberal portion into a glass, she downed it in a few stinging gulps.

"Damn him, damn him, damn him." If she couldn't curse him in his presence, she'd do it while alone. It's not as if I'm a tramp or anything, she thought to herself. She wasn't promiscuous, as he seemed to think.

If only he knew how monastic her life really was. She hadn't had any kind of relationship with a man since her divorce.

Wiping angry tears from her eyes, she poured herself another glass of wine. "All I wanted of you, Ian, was a little affection," she said between swallows that drained the glass. A few harmless kisses and caresses. Would that have offended his rigid moral code? Was he totally turned off by sex? Or was he just totally turned off by
her
? A sound resembling both a hiccup and a sob escaped her lips as she poured the last of the wine into her glass. Didn't he find her the least bit attractive, the least bit desirable?

She didn't consider why she wanted Ian when other men had tried to gain her affection and failed. In the far recesses of her mind she knew that finding the answer to that question might prove to be dangerous. She couldn't handle such introspection now.

Having drunk more tonight than she ever had in her life, she swayed as she turned toward the dining-room door. It wasn't hanging straight. She'd have to tell John about that in the morning. He really should do something about that uneven floor, too, she thought disjointedly as she groped her way to the stairs, instinctively obeying as she went Ian's instructions that she turn out the lights.

How long it took her to climb the stairs, she never could remember. The next thing she knew, she stood staring blankly at the door of her room. Something, a mischievous brain wave that hadn't been dulled by the wine, caused her to look farther down the hall to the other door, a twin to hers, that led into Ian's bedroom.

Chuckling softly, she tipsily negotiated the few steps that brought her to the door. She opened it quietly. The room was dark, but moonlight filtering through the window allowed her to see his sleeping form beneath the light blanket on the double bed.

An idea so inspired that she had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing out loud burst like a ray of light on her fogged mind. It would serve him right, she thought vindictively. It would rattle him, shake his damn cool attitude, blow his pious condescension to hell.

Trying to stabilize the spinning room, she weaved toward the bed. Her dress was no problem. It slipped off easily. As did her underwear. The straps of her sandals were a challenge to her rubbery fingers, but soon they had joined the pile of clothing on the floor. Giggling like a child about to commit the naughtiest of no-nos, she raised the covers and slid naked between the sheets.

His body was warm. That was her first thought as she laid her head on the pillow beside his. He was facing away from her, but she could hear his steady breathing. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she lifted a hand, intending to put it around him. She longed to touch the mat of dark hair that covered his chest, to comb her fingers through it, to satisfy her curiosity about its texture.

But her arm seemed to weigh a ton, and her hand remained heavily on his hip. A warm, sweet lethargy seeped through her body like melting butter. The roaring in her head had quieted to a lullaby. Sleepily she wondered what his congregation would think if they knew their sanctimonious pastor slept naked.

Then an alcohol-induced sleep stole every conscious thought.

Was this a dream or was it really happening? Shay didn't open her eyes on the outside chance that it was nothing more than a wonderful dream. It certainly felt real, but the probability of it was so outlandish she feared it was only a product of her imagination.

She was lying entwined with Ian in a bed. One of his arms was beneath her neck. Her head rested in the crook of his elbow. The other arm was holding her firmly against him. His hand idly traced her spine. She could feel the pressure of his leg on top of hers, moving languorously, detailing the contrasts between them. One of her legs was positioned between his thighs, her knee tucked snugly against their juncture.

Ardent lips planted a kiss at her hairline and trailed down the side of her face. He kissed her temple at its tenderest spot. He blessed her high cheekbone with soft kisses. Her ear knew the sweet nuzzling of his mouth, the explorations of his tongue. Then her neck was treated to small, quick kisses by parted lips. The stubble on his chin abraded her pleasantly.

Acting on instinct, she lifted her arm around his neck. She didn't need to open her eyes. By feel she laid her arm on his shoulder, and her fingers were finally granted the privilege of threading through his glossy black hair.

Her raised arm provided him access to the front of her body. He seized the advantage. His hand slid around her and glided up her narrow ribs to lightly cup her breast. He sighed, his breath a moist vapor on her neck.

He fondled her tenderly, adoringly. Questing fingers lightly brushed her nipple, plucking it gently until it bloomed with desire.

A satisfied male growl rumbled in his throat as his mouth worked its way up to hers. Their lips met. For a long moment they were still. Their lips were closed as they pressed together. That was enough. But not for long.

At the same instant, ravenous hunger overcame them. Their mouths opened greedily, seeking to appease and to be appeased at one and the same time. His tongue plunged deeply into the soft recess of her mouth to thoroughly explore and investigate. It toyed with the tip of hers. When it tired of playing, it thrust again boldly into the wet, silky harbor of her mouth.

His hand on her breast became more possessive and much more arrogant in its caress. He fondled the smooth plumpness and rubbed his fingers against the delicate peak. Her nipple firmed to a hard bud of awakened passion between his gently squeezing fingers.

Shay purred her contentment, drew her arm more tightly around his neck, and pressed her knee higher, which acquainted them both to the strength of his desire. She moaned with longing and arched closer to the rigid flesh.

His eyes sprang open, and he froze.

He stared at her in horror and incredulity as she sleepily opened her eyes and smiled at him. For an endless span of time, while the seconds ticked by ponderously, he only stared at her, wide-eyed and still.

Then in one swift motion he pushed away from her and rolled off the bed. The sheet became entangled in his legs, and he kicked at it furiously. It came off her body, leaving her lying there completely exposed to his glazed eyes. She was disoriented by his sudden motion and couldn't yet understand what had happened.

"What—?" He looked around him wildly as though trying to establish where he was.

Shay loved the sight of his magnificent body and the mussed unruliness of his black hair, but she wished he wouldn't shout. She had a pounding headache and a burning, sour sensation in the pit of her stomach. Groggily she sat up, raising a hand to her head in an effort to stop the blinding pain.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded in a shout that might just as well have been crashing cymbals in her head.

With bleary eyes that refused to focus clearly, she looked up at him. "Sleeping. Until you started kissing me." She held out a beseeching hand. "And please don't shout."

"I wasn't shouting. Do you think I want to wake everyone up? And I wasn't kissing you."

"Oh, yes, you were," she insisted, smiling up at him. At least she thought she was smiling. She seemed to have little control over her muscles. Lord, her head hurt. And why was it so bright in there? "Would you please draw the curtains clo—"

"I wasn't kissing you," he repeated, pushing each word through his teeth. "That is, I didn't know I was. I was dreaming and you … you…" His words faded to an agonized moan as he turned away and covered his face with his hands. That his eyes hadn't been able to stay off her reclining form was reason enough for the conflict inside him. "I can't believe this."

She closed her eyes against each blasting word that seemed to splinter into her ears straight to her brain.

She wanted to scream at him, but all her vocal cords could manage was a hoarse croak. "Nothing happened. You're getting angry all over again for no reason."

When he spun back around, he was almost snarling. "Angry! I could easily murder you." He ripped the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around his waist, knotting it clumsily.

She bolted off the bed, heedless of her own nakedness and sparked to life by his indignation. "Why?"

"Why?!
Why?"
He was shouting now. "You compromised everything I stand for, that's why. Only an easy tramp climbs in bed with a man, especially with a man who's given her no encouragement."

Without thinking, she swung her arm wide, and her palm cracked against his cheek. At that moment the door opened behind them. "Is something wro—?" Celia's concerned question died on her lips. Her eyes bounced from her naked daughter crouched over the bed as if she were about to be sick to the enraged minister who was also naked save for a sheet wrapped around him and Shay's red handprint on his cheek. Celia gave a choked gasp and pressed trembling fingers to her chalky lips.

Ian lunged toward Shay, grabbed the blanket from the bed, and wrapped it around her. But his strong arms were too great a temptation to her weakened body and whirling mind: Despite the insulting, inaccurate name he had called her, she slumped against him, clutching at the sheet around his waist to maintain her balance.

At that moment, John arrived in the doorway, pulling his robe on over his pajamas. He stared at the scene before him in mute astonishment.

"Dad—" Ian began.

"Son, how could you?"

"Please don't shout," Shay mumbled miserably.

"I didn't do anything," Ian retorted. "She did." He thrust Shay away from him and, when she swayed drunkenly, forced her down on the side of the bed. The impact sent a jolt of pain up her spine to explode out the top of her head. She groaned in agony. "She was in bed with me this morning when I woke up."

Celia hiccuped a sob and buried her face in her hands. "Celia, I swear to you," Ian said earnestly, "that I didn't do anything improper with your daughter."

His placating words pierced through Shay's dazed mind, and she snapped her head erect. "Well, it wasn't because you didn't want to, pastor." She lurched to her feet. "Whether you admit it or not, you were kissing me." She stopped to swallow and shuddered with nausea.

The room was spinning around her. Ian's blue eyes were hard with accusation as he glared down at her. "Your hands were all over me. You kissed—" She tried again to tell him in no uncertain terms just what she thought of him, but nausea rose in a sickening wave. It seemed to take forever for her to reach the bathroom and slam the door behind her.

Pale and weak, she made her way downstairs. Her knees threatened to buckle at any moment. Though arrows of pain were still shooting between her temples, her head felt light and woozy. She had no idea what to expect when she arrived in the kitchen. The uproar in Ian's room had gone on for several minutes after she'd fled for the bathroom. When it had finally quieted, her mother had knocked on the door.

"Do you need any help, Shay?" she'd asked.

"No."

Celia had taken her at her word. After washing her face in cool water, brushing her teeth, and pulling her hair back with a barrette, Shay had gone to her room to dress. She had heard the other room being vacated as one by one everyone went downstairs.

In the light of day, with her brain not influenced by alcohol, she admitted that her behavior had been utterly childish and inappropriate, and she didn't blame Ian in the least for being furious. He was a minister, after all, and though nothing had happened—not much anyway—he had to live above reproach. His reputation mustn't be tainted in the slightest degree. It was obvious from everything he said and did, by the way he conducted himself, that he was dedicated to his work. What right had she to tamper with his life?

In addition, she suspected that his pride had suffered as much as his conscience. He had been a victim of circumstance, therefore not wholly accountable. But he was also a man who, she guessed, would want to be in charge of any situation, especially those involving women. She'd deprived him of that advantage, and that as much as anything had probably fired his temper.