She nodded, her pulse skipping. "I've no doubts."
But he did. She could see them encroaching. A slight darkening of his eyes, a tensed muscle working in his jaw, a tightening of his hold on her—on himself. Wanting her left raw and bare all the emotions—the guilt, the anger, the horror—he'd locked up five years ago. He could have sex with a woman, Annie thought, so long as emotion didn't come into play. So long as he didn't care.
"I'm not asking any more of you—or myself—than tonight," she said.
He skimmed a finger down her throat, across the swell of her breasts. "Annie, I'm still going to want you tomorrow. One night isn't going to end it for me. If that's what you're hoping—"
"It's not."
"Good." He caught a lock of damp hair and tucked it behind her ear. "I want you, Annie. Only you."
"That doesn't scare me, you know."
He drew in close, deliberately skimmed his palms over her breasts, down her sides. "Maybe it should," he said, and kissed her again. Her towel sagged to her feet. She didn't know what happened to his except that it was gone. She moaned at the feel of his hard, taut body against hers. His answering moan was low, deep, and without any warning, he scooped her up, her legs a vise around his waist, and carried her into the bedroom. He swept back comforter, blankets, and top sheet with one hand, then fell with her onto the bed, groaning her name in the milky darkness.
Need overcame her, desire pent up from that very first moment she'd spotted him across the crowded Linwood ballroom, all tense and outraged at having a competitor. She couldn't get enough of touching him, stroking him. Nor could he of her. She could feel his desperate need, let it fuel her own as his mouth lingered on hers, slid down her throat, found her breast. She arched, moaning, dazed and hungry with want.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered and with one hand stroked the curve of her hip, slipped his fingertips between her legs. She shut her eyes, buried her head in his chest. One sensation after another stunned and rocked her, and she writhed with pleasure, a tangle of limbs and aching, shimmering desires.
"Garvin." His name came out in a strangled cry. "Now."
He didn't need to be told twice. Fumbling in the drawer to the nightstand, he produced a small foil package. He gave her a wry smile. "The perfect host."
But his voice was hoarse, ragged, and in a few seconds, protection seen to, he eased back onto her, coursed one palm up her side, sending her pulse racing. She was aching and wet and vibrating with the need to feel him inside her. "I'm not fragile," she whispered. "You're not going to hurt me."
She didn't know if he heard her or not, if she'd even spoken aloud, for in that next instant, he settled into that dark, hot spot, then plunged inside, fast and deep and so hard it took her breath away. Pleasure speared through her, spread, tumbled out of control. Her blood sizzled, her head spun. She was in a dark labyrinth, wading through even darker caverns, searching, wanting. She heard soft voices urging her on, other voices warning her back, until finally there was no moving forward, no turning back. She cried out, and light spilled over her.
"Annie."
She wrapped her arms around him in the dark, held herself close to him. "I'm all right. More than all right."
She felt his smile, the feather touch of a kiss on her hair. "I know."
She opened her eyes, looked at him. "You do, don't you?"
He stroked her hair. "Mm."
"What about you? Are you okay?"
"Just fine."
She smiled. "I don't mean that way. I mean—" She frowned, thinking, not wanting to spoil the moment with their lovemaking still fresh. "I think deep down you're afraid if you love me, if I love you back, that I'll come to a bad end."
He was silent, and in the darkness and the stillness, Annie was struck by how different her life was. Six months ago she'd been living in her cottage on the coast of Maine, running a maritime museum, enjoying Otto and her friends, and not thinking too much about the future. Now she was in San Francisco in bed with a man she wasn't sure could ever really let himself love again.
She wriggled free of him and sat up, aware of the tangle of sheets around them, the soft sheen across her breasts and stomach that told of their lovemaking. "I'm right," she said stubbornly, but not without sympathy, "and you know it."
His gaze held hers, his expression impossible to read in the shifting shadows. "Was tonight about love, Annie? I don't know. I think it was just about you wanting me and me wanting you back. I think you're just as afraid—maybe more so—of letting anyone else into your life, risking loss."
His words held the ring of truth. Here today, gone tomorrow. That was her philosophy in all things, wasn't it? Why not in love? She shivered, suddenly cold. "I'm still right," she said, finding an edge of top sheet, drawing it up over her breasts.