“God only knows,” he said wearily. “Show me the sketch.”
She hesitated before handing it to him.
He looked at the sketch for a long time and then smiled. “Very clever.”
She had hurt him. For the first time she realized the man in that sketch needed his hard, mirrored exterior to armor him. “I could tear it up,” she offered impulsively.
“Why should you do that? It’s what you wanted. People should do what they wish to do. Take what they want to take.” He returned the sketch and motioned to the helmsman to come and take the wheel. “It’s time for you to go back to the cabin.”
“Soon.”
“Now, Juliette.” His soft voice was veined with iron. “I have a desire to see that exquisite skin veiled only in the sheerest lace. Since that’s the only flesh this particular Andreas deals in these days, I wish to be obliged.” He turned away. “I’ll have a glass of wine with Simon and join you shortly.”
Juliette stared numbly at the filmy white lace robe spilled across the bunk. Jean Marc was clearly angry and wanted to subdue her. Angry…or hurt? And why couldn’t she rouse herself to feel resentment? She had battled against submission all her life, fighting small battles as well as major to show everyone she could not be conquered. Yet, if she fought Jean Marc now, it would not be because she wanted to win but because she would lose pride if she lost. She had always hated the lies and pettiness in those around her, and yet was she not behaving in a muddled and petty fashion?
Oh, she just didn’tknow. Since the moment she had discovered that unknowingly she was hurting Catherine she had not been certain of her reactions to any situation, but instinct told her there was something very wrong here.
Frowning, she slowly sat down on the bunk. It was time she stopped acting on impulse and gave some thought to her relationship with Jean Marc.
She was wearing the lace robe when he walked into the cabin. Kneeling with both legs tucked under her, the luxuriant folds of the robe flowing back from her shoulders in lacy wings, she felt a queer sensation in thepit of her stomach as he looked at her. Hedidlust after her.
“Exquisite,” he said, and moved toward her. “I wondered if you’d—”
“S’il vous plaît,”she said abruptly. “There, it’s done. Does it please you?”
He stopped, regarding her warily.
“Shall I say it again?S’il vous plaît, Jean Marc. If you please.” She met his gaze steadily. “Are there other words you wish me to speak? Tell me, and I’ll say them.”
“I’ll think on it.” He moved forward and sat down on the side of the bunk. His hands were trembling slightly as he parted the lacy robe. “You have lovely breasts.” He reached out to cup those breasts, weighing them in his palms. Her breasts were swelling in his hands as his thumb nails gently brushed back and forth across the aroused nipples.
“Why?” he asked abruptly.
“What difference does it make? I’ve spoken the words you wanted me—” His thumbs and forefingers plucked teasingly at her nipples and she lost track of what she was saying. Heat. A tingling ache between her thighs.
“It’s too sudden.” His head lowered and his mouth closed on her left breast.
She gasped as she felt the strong suction of his mouth pulling, drawing, his teeth gnawing on the pointed nipple. She swayed forward and grasped his shoulders, her throat arching back. Dear heaven, his mouth…
His head rose. “Why?” He didn’t wait for a reply as his lips closed hungrily on her other nipple. His hand continued to stimulate the breast he’d just abandoned, pumping, squeezing, his fingers plucking at the hard rosette.
She could see the pulse beating wildly in his temple, and his breath was coming faster, harsher.
He lifted his head again and his eyes were glazed, unseeing. “Never mind.” His voice was guttural. “Later.” He pushed her back on the bunk and stood up. He was stripping quickly, his gaze first on her swollen breasts, then on the curls surrounding her womanhood.
“Spread your legs,chérie. I want to see how lovely you are down there.”
She obeyed him dreamily. He was the one who was beautiful. All bronze masculinity and alluring textures, the dark curling hair on his chest, the powerful sinews cording his thighs, the smooth tight musculature of his buttocks.
“Yes,” he whispered, his gaze on the apex of her womanhood. “Oh, yes. You want me?”
She nodded. She couldn’t force the word past the tightness of her throat. She had never wanted anything more in her life than she wanted him to come back to her, to stop the aching between her thighs.
He was naked, boldly, magnificently aroused, and she stared at him in fascination. He stood over her, his dark eyes wild in his flushed face, his mouth heavy with sensuality. He moved her thighs farther apart and stood looking at her.
She clenched, exposed, heavy, burning.
He was breathing harshly, his muscles locked with tension—yet he stood there unmoving, his gaze fixed on her.
