Mistress of Magic Read online

  Her clothing seemed to slip away.

  He was thinking next of the brilliant red dance-hall costume, and how she had looked across the table from him at the restaurant.

  Lobster shells flying.

  But even that image wouldn’t remain.

  The one that came again and again was of Reggie in the costume shop. The dinosaur outfit in her hands.

  Tall, slim, in the muted maroon bra and panties, so much of the woman visible and so much of the woman, all of the woman, beautiful and sensual. Her build was slim, but just slightly muscled. Her calves were beautifully shaped, giving her long, tempting legs. Hips flared just slightly, evocatively. Her waist seemed as trim as Scarlett O’Hara’s, and her breasts …

  He groaned and closed his eyes tightly against the images. For a moment he marveled at the way she had made him feel. Even the frustration was good.

  The hunger was even better. Oh, he’d been hungry before. He’d wanted women before. He had had women before.

  But it had never mattered before. Not in the long years since Shelley.

  He opened his eyes again. He still didn’t like to remember.

  Better to concentrate on the woman down the hallway.

  Yeah, even on breasts.

  They had been full and beautiful, rising over the lacy maroon of the bra. That lace had barely covered the darkened crests of her nipples. He’d have loved to reach out and touch. He hadn’t even been introduced to her then.

  Excuse me, Miss Delaney, but this is making me insane. The mystery, the longing. Could I move this wisp of lace for a minute just to see …

  He ground his teeth. She was Max’s sister.

  Right. And like Max, she was thirty-three years old.

  The hell with Max.

  Max had no place in his fantasies.

  But in a way, he did. Wes tried to remember all that Max had told him about his sister, Regina. Why had he never been curious about her before?

  Shelley had been in his life.

  And someone else had been in Regina’s life. Caleb. That had been his name. She had been engaged for years to a fellow named Caleb. Engaged. She had never married him.

  Why?

  Had she been too attached to her own name? Max’s name? The Delaney name?

  She had loved the man. The way Max had talked, they had really been a team. Then something had happened. An accident. He tried hard to concentrate. Yes, it had been a drunk driver. Now he remembered it all, remembered Max telling him. The man had been hit by a drunk driver. He hadn’t died immediately. That had taken time.

  It had been awhile ago, though. Several years, he was fairly certain.

  What about her life now?

  Well, she didn’t like Rick Player, that much had been pretty obvious.

  Good. That said she had some sense—even if she did turn on lights when bullets might be flying. Player was smooth. He was the type most women seemed to fall for. Reggie disliked the man. She hid it the best she could, but Wes knew she disliked him.

  Wes suddenly heard something from the hall. A sound, barely discernible, but there nonetheless. No one had come in the house from the outside, he was certain.

  It had to be Reggie.

  He pushed up somewhat, leaning against his pillow and the bedstead, watching the door. Every muscle tightened, but he didn’t make a move. His gun was sitting on the small antique oak night table at the side of the bed. If he needed it, he could reach it.

  But intuition assured him that he wasn’t going to need it.

  Then she appeared in the doorway. She was still in the terry robe. Her dark hair was loose, disheveled, free around her shoulders. Moonlight played upon it beautifully, beams cascading over it whitely.

  “Wes? Are you sleeping?” she queried softly. Her fingers were long, elegant and delicate against the door frame. He wondered what her fingers would feel like against his skin.

  “No.”

  He hadn’t needed to answer her. The moon gave enough brightness to the room that they could see each other. He was almost sitting up. Sheets drawn to his waist, chest bare, eyes open.

  Awake, and aware. In every sense of the word. A rising sense of heat seemed to enter the room right along with her. She stood at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t dressed to be a temptress, he thought.

  Not consciously.

  And yet …

  She couldn’t have been more so. The frayed terry was so soft looking, the pink such a compelling color on her. The V fell open just to the rise of her breasts, and he could remember that rise when it had been so tightly clad in the maroon lace of her bra. Just as he had been enticed to see more then, he wanted to see more now. To see, to touch. He ached to touch. He didn’t dare move. Tension was knotting his every muscle.

  Desire would soon make a tent of the sheet.

  “I—I didn’t want to be alone,” she said. She was waiting for something. From him. An invitation? He was willing to give one!

  But only if her feelings were the right ones …

  “You don’t want to be alone, or you want to be with someone?” he said, watching her eyes in the darkness. They were so large. So luminous. “There is a difference. Which is it?”

  He could tell that she wanted to lie. She moistened her lips to speak. He watched the movement of her tongue and lips.

  “I—don’t know,” she murmured softly. “Is there such a difference?”

  He pushed himself farther up with his hands. His knees bent as he rested his elbows on them, watching her. “A tremendous difference. Are you afraid to be alone?”

  “No. Yes.” She swallowed hard. “Yes, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Then you want to be with someone.”

  She hesitated. “It’s not that simple.”

  “I hope not.”

  “You’re not making things very easy.”

  “They shouldn’t be easy.”

  Maybe he pressed it a bit too far. Her body was tensing, and she was about to turn away, but he caught hold of her hand. In the moonlight her eyes were liquid. It had cost her a lot to come here. Maybe he was being ruthless.

  He had to be.

  “Do you just want a warm body?” he demanded.

  She tugged hard to free her hand. “Let go! If you would—”

  “Answer me. Did you just want a warm body?”

  She tugged harder. “No! Damn it—let me go. I knew this was a mistake. You want—”

  “Yes, I want!” he told her roughly. Still maintaining his grip on her, he cast his covers aside and came to his feet. Her eyes were locked with his, yet she was aware that he had been completely naked beneath the sheet, and she was struggling to keep her eyes on his face. She still fought his hold. He tightened his fingers relentlessly around her wrist and drew her hand to his body, forcing her palm against his chest. “I want,” he whispered, towering over her, his breath teasing her forehead and the soft strands of hair there. “I’ve lain here all night and thought of nothing but what I want. But I don’t play warm flesh, and I don’t do body doubles for any man. So there is a big difference to me in the reasons you might have come. Not just so that you’re not alone. And not just so that you’re with someone. Be here to be with me.”

  She inhaled a ragged sob. “I’ve never done anything like this before in my entire life. And now you’re making fun of me. If you don’t want—”

  He let out a soft, swift expletive. “Lady, haven’t you listened to a thing I’ve said?” To emphasize his point, he brought her palm against his heart. She felt the giant pulse of it. She nearly jumped, trying to withdraw her hand, but he wasn’t going to allow her to. He wasn’t going to give an inch. Her eyes were even wider than before. Greener, emerald in the moonlight. The tousled jet tendrils of her hair were a sensual frame to the beauty of her face. The fuzzy pink robe was coming loose. The V at her breasts was spreading. He brought their hands from his chest to hers. He laid his palm at the valley there, and felt the thunder of her heart.

  He s
miled.

  With his free hand, he caught her body at the base of her spine and brought her hard against him. “I want you, Regina. Don’t ever doubt that I want you.”

  He emphasized the point once again. This time he brought her hand to his hip, then led her lower. He brought her fingers around the hard shaft of his manhood. A shudder ripped through him and he rued his own determination as the longing constricted into something painful. Her mouth formed an O and a soft gasp escaped her. He swore hoarsely, threading his fingers through her hair and lifting her face to his. “I want you. I’ve lain here all night imagining you. With and without clothing. I’ve never encountered a woman I wanted so desperately. But I don’t want you because you’re afraid, and most of all, I don’t want you if you’re going to jump up in the morning and be horrified and want to pretend that nothing ever happened. Understand?”

  Miraculously, her fingers were still upon him. That touch. That simple touch. Had he wanted her so damn badly, really, that just this subtle—and scarcely willing!—caress could send him over some brink?

  No! He wanted to make love to her. Wanted to make it the best night she’d known in her life.

  Had he pushed it too far again? Would she refuse to play by his rules?

  He gave her a slight shake. “Understand?”

  Lightning fires were shooting through his body. In about two seconds he wouldn’t give a damn if she understood or not, if she had listened to a word he had said. The want was going to be need. He would have to have her, just as he would have to breathe in the moments to come.

  She blinked. To his amazement a soft smile curled her lip. “I have to jump up in the morning. I have to go to work.”

  He lowered his face to hers. His lips hovered just above hers as he spoke. “You can go to work, Reggie. I’ll take you. But you can’t pretend. You can’t look through me in the hallway. And I won’t lie to anyone about this.”

  She didn’t answer. He didn’t care anymore. He had put everything on the line.

  And her mouth was there. Just below his. The mouth that had been made to be kissed.

  And he was going to kiss it.

  He did. He covered it with the fullness of his own. Teased her lips with the tip of his tongue. Forced his way past them. Delved deep, drank deep. Felt the warmth of her mouth encompass and sheath the thrust of his tongue.

  And felt the lightning fires searing through him again. He was ablaze, a mass of tension and desire, pulsing beats that desperately sought a release. And she was still touching him. Bringing him closer and closer to an explosive brink.

  His lips broke from hers. Wet, liquid, slightly puffed and so damp from their kiss, her lips were ever so desirable. But he wanted more. He lifted her hair and touched his lips to her shoulders.

  He slipped his hands beneath the shoulders of her robe and pushed the robe to the floor.

  And like him, she was naked.

  Naked and beautiful. Her breasts, the breasts he had fantasized about for so long, seemed a greater marvel than any picture he could conjure. They were full and firm with generous, dusky rose areolae and nipples. His hand instantly sought the fullness of her right breast. His thumb rolled and teased the nipple.

  He bent down to taste the fullness of it.

  She cried out softly, arching against him. A searing band seemed to stretch across his loin as he touched her, as he drank so deeply from her. He wanted to give her so much.

  And for the moment, to give was to take.

  He lifted her into his arms, casting her down on the bed, quickly crawling atop her. Her eyes were on his all the while. He needed her so badly.

  His hands moved swiftly over the length of her, caressing, brushing her flesh, bringing warmth, evocative, arousing. He kissed and caressed her breasts, stroked her thighs and ran his palm firmly along her hip and the outer thigh. Pressing into the encompassing softness of the bed, he parted her thighs with the weight of his body. The scent of her was sweet and as tempting as a siren’s song. He buried his face against her throat, kissed her earlobe, teased the pulse with his tongue.

  With a massive shift, a sudden movement, he was inside her. A soft gasp noted her surprise at his abrupt invasion. A deep shuddering seized her as he tried to hold still, to take time, but she was warm and wet and sheathed him so sweetly, adding temptation, promising relief to the hunger. He groaned, sinking into her. She was small and tight. He thought fleetingly that it must have been forever since she had made love.

  He whispered something to her. Words that made no sense. He kissed and nuzzled her ear and she gasped again, her arms circling him, her long, slender legs doing the same. The welcoming movement on her part sent new sensations blazing through him. A fire that could not be quenched. He abandoned all thoughts of gentleness to the moonlight and the night, and set free the pulse of longing and passion that had seized him from the beginning.

  She was accepting the onslaught of his beat, of his hungry rhythm. Then she moved. Fluid, sweet. Her back arching, her hips rotating. Taking him, accepting him. Holding, stroking, with the tight clench of her body. Bringing him higher and higher, racing toward a peak. Fire burned inside him. Climax exploded upon him and he jerked, tightened, thrust hard and harder. A searing seed spilled from him, filling her.

  A soft gasp escaped her as she tightened, holding tight to him. He drew away. Her eyes were glazed. He had given her so little. And she had given him so much.

  He couldn’t leave it that way. She started to speak but he caught her lips. Kissed her slowly. Gently. Explored. Teased. Demanded with his mouth. Took it away. Drank deeply of her lips once again.

  Then he began to shift down her body. Catching her breasts. Taking his time loving them both. So slowly. So tenderly.

  She didn’t seem to realize that they had barely begun. And she was whispering awkwardly to him.

  He slipped his hand beneath the small of her back, lifting the smooth ivory plane of her stomach to his lips. He brushed the flesh with his tongue. Ran his lips across it. Delved into her navel with his kiss.

  “You were really—”

  “What?”

  She gasped. He was running his tongue, wet, slick, along her upper thigh. Gently forcing her knees apart once again.

  “You—”

  She broke off, again gasping. He breathed against the very center of feminine desire. Touched so lightly with the tip of his tongue.

  Delved so deeply.

  She choked out something, digging into the bedding. Protesting. Not protesting. It didn’t matter. He could feel the sudden soaring of the passion within her, and he wouldn’t have released her then, wouldn’t have granted her quarter, had she screamed for mercy. For as it was, each twist and sweet undulation of her body sent the raw edge of desire flaming within him once again. It grew to become an agony. A pulsing that strained and contorted his muscle and loin, near bursting. But he waited. Calmly taking his leisure of her beautiful flesh, waited until she rocked against him. Pleading …

  And then he rose above her.

  That time, it was she who gasped and sobbed softly, pulsing against him in a whirlwind, tightening, shuddering, straining, then collapsing below him while he held her, taking his own release more slowly, only after she had found hers. Then, drenched, seeking to breathe again at a rational pace, holding her still, he let her lie quietly beside him, her hand upon his belly, her head upon his chest.

  “Wes—”

  He pressed his fingers against her lips.

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  “I was horrible—”

  “Horrible? I’m not sure that I’ll be able to stand it when you are good!”

  “No, no, I mean, coming in here like this, tonight. I don’t even know you. Not really.”

  “Correction. I think you know me very well.”

  She pressed a kiss against his chest, and he felt her smile. “Parts of you!”

  He stroked the ink-black hair that lay damp and tangled over him. “I gave you fair warnin
g,” he told her. “I won’t let you leap away, and I won’t let you pretend that nothing happened here.”

  “Everything happened here,” she murmured. Then she pushed against him. Max’s sister was very beautiful and an incredible woman. She made love with the same passion with which she lived.

  “I didn’t mean that the way that it sounded. I mean, I don’t expect anything from you. I just don’t—I don’t make a habit of doing things like this. It just seemed right. You were just so—”

  “Ungodly sexy?” he suggested.

  “Oh, no, it—”

  “I’m not ungodly sexy?” he added, disappointed.

  It brought a smile to her lips. Those lips that still seemed made for kissing.

  “Oh, you are sexy.”

  “Ungodly sexy.”

  “All right—ungodly sexy!” She laughed, but then her laughter faded and she added softly, “But it was more. Much more. I don’t know if I can make you understand. I don’t know if I can make myself understand.”

  He lifted a hand, smoothing some of the hair from her face. “You’re pretty ungodly sexy yourself,” he told her huskily. “And if you hadn’t come down that hall tonight, I might have died of the longing for you.”

  “No one dies from longing,” she said.

  “Want to bet?”

  Yes, hers were lips made for kissing, and he kissed them again, his hand cupping her nape and bringing her face to his.

  Then, while he kissed her, he let his hands start to roam again. Even as he kissed her, her eyes widened. Some sound gurgled in her throat. His lips rose above hers and she whispered, “We can’t—”

  “Why can’t we?”

  “We just—”

  “Can,” he assured her. “We can.”

  And he began to make love to her in earnest once again.

  She was a mistress of fantasy. A creator of magic. And this night, she had most certainly created some fantastic magic for him.

  There would be no denials. He was firm about that. Yet he knew that the daylight would come, and that it would mean different things to both of them. He wouldn’t let her walk away.