Made For Each Other Read online

  A flicker of desire lit the blue eyes. “You make a fetching picture,” he said lightly, leaning one shoulder against the door.

  “Thank you,” she replied in a stilted voice. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to—”

  “But I do mind,” Nick said. He dropped the jacket he had slung over one shoulder. His finger reached up to loosen the knot of his tie. “I mind very much your bathing without me.” His fingers unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the swarthy chest and reached for the waistband of his pants.

  “Well, I certainly don’t intend to bathe with you,” she said and began to lever herself out of the tub, only to realize she was exposing her most intimate parts for Nick’s rapacious view. Quickly she sank beneath the foaming bubble bath. “Do you mind!”

  “Yes, I do. I mind very much.” He stood there, nude now, his sun- bronzed body as beautiful as a Greek athlete’s. It took all of her willpower to avert her gaze. A blush of shame at her wanton thoughts suffused her golden skin.

  “You know, you’re very enticing with your rosy nipples peeking out of the suds like that,” Nick said as he slid into the tub beside her.

  Panicky, she tried to move away, but there was nowhere to go that some part of her was not touching Nick. She turned large, imploring eyes on him. “Please, Nick . . .”

  Nick retrieved the soap. A devilish smile curved his lips. “Turn around. I’ll wash your back for you.”

  Before she could demur, Nick caught her shoulders to turn her away from him. “Oh!” she winced at the slight stab of pain in her left shoulder. Though her shoulder was nearly well and she hoped to discard the cumbersome brace by the end of the coming week, a twist in the wrong direction could sometimes still hurt.

  Nick’s lips found her shoulder now. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “No, you aren’t! You just want an excuse to—to ...”

  “You’re right,” he said, his lips not halting in the trail they traced across her shoulder to the hollow of her neck. “I’m a blackguard.” His teeth tugged at the lobe of her ear, and she shivered at the delightful sensation. “I’d stoop to anything to have the pleasure of making love to my wife,” he murmured. “Did I tell you how much I like the way you piled your hair on top your lovely head?” His fingers toyed with the wisps at the nape of her neck, and she shivered again.

  “Nick,” she breathed, “you mustn’t!”

  “Why not?” he asked softly. His hands reached around her to cup the breasts that glistened in the water. “I only want to make you feel good, Mrs. Raffer.”

  He gently squeezed the golden globes, and she sighed. With his kneeding her breasts and pulling, elongating her nipples, her resistance was quickly fading. The heat of his body against her back surely raised the temperature of the water— why wasn’t it boiling the way her blood was at that moment? When knowing hands slid down along her rib cage, she remained immobile, wanting to escape while she still maintained possession of her senses.

  “Because . . .because I’m using the safe word – stop!” she whispered in one last vain attempt to save herself.

  Nick groaned. When he abruptly moved away, she almost slid under the water without the support of his back. “I suppose we’ll be late,” he said, “if I continued with this pleasurable pastime.”

  Almost regretfully she reached for the towel on the rack and climbed from the tub. One last glance before she left the bathroom indicated that Nick had apparently already forgotten her as he vigorously soaped his corded neck and shoulders. What for her was something very special was for Nick merely a pastime!

  So when Nick came into the bedroom and she was slipping into the simple but elegantly designed pale blue clinging gown that sloped off the shoulders to gather at a deep V at the small of her back, her indignation had dropped the room temperature a chilly ten degrees. With frost on her eyelashes, she looked right through him when he passed her to take from the chest of drawers a white linen shirt with Irish lace down the front and at the cuffs.

  She tried to ignore him as she pinned up her dark hair in a crown of curls held in place by a white silk rose. But it was almost impossible when he dropped a light kiss on her cheek in passing or playfully pinched her buttocks when she bent to slip on a thigh-high.

  “Where’s your brace?” he asked as he shrugged into the black tuxedo’s jacket

  How could she admit that her feminine vanity caused her to want to look her best in anticipation of meeting Sheila Morrison that evening? “My gown wouldn’t hang right,” she said finally. “I thought I’d just leave the brace off for the evening.”

  Nick came up behind her and clasped her shoulders. “I’ll miss helping you with that contraption,” he said as he lowered his dark head to nuzzle her ear, then released her to finish tying his black bow tie.

  She marveled that she felt little embarrassment as the two of them went about the intimate act of dressing—as if it were a commonplace thing they had done before each other for years. This was like the closeness her parents shared.

  Yet for Nick she knew it meant nothing. So, as much as she wanted to reach out and run her fingers through the thick curls that grew over Nick’s collar, she restrained herself. Once Nick knew he had mastered her, she was sure he would lose interest in her.

  She was even more sure when she met Sheila Morrison two hours later.

  Julie had tried to control her nervousness when she arrived at the La Fonda Inn, to appear calm and accustomed to the elegance that surrounded her in the grand ballroom— from the liveried waiters in gold and purple who passed around trays filled with glasses of bubbly champagne all the way to the distinguished governor himself who chatted amiably with Nick and her.

  But all too soon there were other people eager to claim Nick’s attention—the oil lobbyist’s wife, a bleached blond who had already had too much to drink; the railroad commissioner, wanting Nick’s support for an upcoming bill; and Juan Rivera, a famed Mexican-American artist interested in obtaining a commission to paint a mural on the city hall’s walls.

  Watching Nick as he adroitly handled these people, she could well understand why he drew crowds wherever he went. Not only was he exceedingly handsome, especially that evening in the debonair dinner clothes, but he also seemed genuinely interested in the people and their problems.

  Julie was about to revise her opinion of her political stand on the issue of Nicholas Raffer as a senator—until Sheila Morrison came into the room.

  It was a large room, filled with well over three hundred people, but still every person there was as cognizant of Sheila’s entrance as if a butler had stepped forward and announced, “Santa Fe’s Patroness of the Arts— Miss Sheila Morrison.”

  Julie stood at Nick’s side and watched, sick at heart, as the beautiful, statuesque young woman with a tawny mane of hair moved toward them. Her every movement was one of sensual feline grace, magnified a hundred times over by the sleek silver lam6 gown she wore that accented her voluptuous curves.

  Sheila took a glass from the tray the waiter offered and came to stand at Nick’s side. “Nick, love,” she said in a husky voice, “I’ve been wanting to meet your little wife.”

  I just bet you have, Julie thought. She felt as if all eyes were riveted on the three of them, every breath held in delicious suspense, waiting for the clash of the two women over the senator.

  Nick’s long lips curled in amusement. “Sheila Morrison, my wife, Julie.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Julie lied, her voice sounding cool, with just the right amount of self-assurance . . . self-assurance that she did not feel as she compared herself to the incredibly lovely woman.

  Sheila turned long-lashed turquoise eyes on Nick. “All of Santa Fe is talking about the rapidity of your courtship, Nick.” She raised a finely arched brow at Julie. “How ever did you two meet?”

  “You might say it was by accident,” Nick said and put an arm about Julie’s waist in the possessive maimer of a loving husband.

  She wanted to grin
d the stiletto heel of her shoe into his foot. His act of the adoring husband fooled her probably no more than it did Sheila.

  Nor was she fooled when Sheila just happened to discover she shared the same table as the newlyweds. She was sure Sheila had managed to arrange the seating just as easily as she managed to hold Nick’s attention with her intimate discussion of the approaching election year—though Julie would have sworn Sheila’s eyes said something else.

  Although the other guests seated with Julie were intelligent, interesting people—a grand-father who wrote historical romances, a scientist who worked at the Los Alamos laboratory, and a ski instructor—she could not keep her gaze from straying to Nick and Sheila. From the corner of her eye she watched his handsomely sardonic face as he inclined his head, listening intently to whatever it was that Sheila whispered at his ear. Every once in a while the flash of a photographer’s camera illuminated the table, but the two of them seemed oblivious to the commotion. Once she saw Dee Morley busily scribbling on a notepad and inwardly cringed at what she would read in Dee’s column the next day.

  She was so miserable that the sumptuously prepared prime rib of roast beef stuck in her throat like a piece of charcoal and the red wine was as tasteless as water. After dinner the musicians began to play, and the governor and his wife opened the first dance, a waltz. A few minutes later others began to join the first couple, and she noticed Sheila rise from her seat and Nick take her arm, leading her out onto the dance floor.

  Julie tried to smile, to listen to what the scientist was telling her about the world’s first atomic bomb, developed in New Mexico, but her heart was not in it. She could not help but watch the striking couple on the dance floor. Two tall, beautiful people—they were made for each other. They were the elite of New Mexico’s high society—rich, beautiful, influential people.

  It was not until her name was repeated the second time that she realized a man behind her was requesting a dance with her. She looked around. “Jim! I didn’t know you were here.”

  The nice-looking man of medium height took her hand. “And I wasn’t sure you were here—until I saw Senator Raffer on the dance floor and realized that ...” He halted.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she said, saving him from embarrassment.

  “You should know by now that newspaper editors are always invited to all the func¬tions,” he said wryly. “To make certain the gala events get a big splash on the society page.” His gaze swept over her appreciatively, and he said, “You look lovely tonight, Julie.”

  “Thank you, Jim,” she said quietly. Why hadn’t Nick told her that? Constantly subjected as she was to Nick’s roguish good looks, she had forgotten that Jim Miller was quite handsome himself, with blondish-brown hair that emphasized his velvet brown eyes; so she readily accepted his request to dance. If Nick could have fun, then why couldn’t she? she asked herself.

  Jim guided her to the already crowded dance floor and took her in his arms. she found it easy to follow Jim, though she felt none of the electric quality in him that ran under Nick’s cool reserve.

  “Are you happy?” Jim asked.

  She turned her face into his shoulder so that he could not see the misery in her eyes. “Of course,” she mumbled into the smooth lapel of his tuxedo. “Aren’t all brides happy?” Jim looked down at her flushed face. “I guess it’s just that I didn’t know that you were seeing anyone else.”

  “I—it was just something unexpected.” She met his concerned gaze. “I’m sorry, Jim, truly.”

  He smiled. “No problem. I knew you were too cute and too intelligent for some lucky man not to snatch up quickly. I’m just sorry I waited too long.”

  Her dimples deepened. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all night.”

  “Do I get to give the bride a kiss?”

  “Of course,” she said, expecting a brief kiss on the cheek.

  But it was more than a brotherly peck Jim bestowed on Julie’s inviting lips, and she was so surprised by the kiss that for a moment she forgot to dance and stood there in Jim’s arms, staring up at him.

  “May I claim a dance with my wife?” the voice behind them asked dryly.

  Jim released her. “Surely, Senator Raffer,” he said, flashing a glance at her. But his smile was affable as he gave her up into Nick’s arms. No smile crossed Nick’s cool, self-contained expression.

  Already a swift weakness was sweeping through her at Nick’s touch—the way his arm held her against his hard length, his hand holding hers in a firm possession. She knew he had seen Jim kiss her but doubted that he cared since he seemed to be so involved with Sheila.

  On that she was wrong.

  “And are you enjoying yourself?” Nick asked.

  She heard the razor edge in his voice with some surprise and wished she could see his expression, but her face was firmly anchored against his chest. “Why is everyone all of a sudden so interested in my well-being?” she demanded petulantly.

  “Your former dancing partner seems to be very interested in your well-being. Do you always kiss every man you dance with?”

  “Do you always rape every woman you happen to be alone with?” she countered.

  She tilted her head as far back as she could so she could see his face. The blue eyes glittered like shards of glass. She almost told him the truth, that the kiss had meant nothing to her. But anger rose in her at Nick’s double standard—that he could condemn her yet condone his own actions.

  A muscle flickered in Nick’s smoothly shaven jaw. “Not yet, I haven’t . . . but my patience is wearing thin.”

  “Your patience! My pa—” But the music ended, and she had to break off so no one would overhear her furious words.

  “Come on,” Nick said, the pleasant smile belying the hard eyes, their depths more black now than blue. The hand that gripped her elbow was anything but loving. “We’re going home.”

  She was truly frightened. Never had she seen Nick’s lazy-lidded eyes glint as dangerously as they did now. His carved lips curled in a feral smile. More than ever Nick reminded her of the savage mountain lion stalking its prey—herself. “I don’t want to go home right now.” She tried to pull her arm away.

  “Ah, but you were the one who told me last week you didn’t want to attend—the exhausted bride, wasn’t it?” And he maneuvered her through the press of people, his imprisoning arm about her waist.

  Unless she wanted to make a scene, she knew she had no other choice than to leave with Nick. On the way home she sat on the far side of the car, staring out her window into the blackness beyond. She could not bring herself to look at Nick’s granite face but could only hope that he could not hear the tumultuous pounding of her heart.

  Too quickly the lights of Santa Fe faded behind, and the emptiness of the desert confronted her. When Nick turned onto the dusty road leading home, she began to shake. She knew Nick would give no quarter. No leniency was to be expected from him. His dealings with the opponents who crossed him in the senate had demonstrated that very effectively.

  But I’m not an opponent, she cried silently. I’m his wife!

  With a screech Nick halted the car before the camouflaged underground house that she had almost begun to consider home. But before he could come around and open her door, she opened it herself. She tried to maintain a dignified composure as she marched to the house, her attitude as cold as the tiny crystals of snowflakes whirring past. Behind her she heard Nick’s easy long strides and quickened her own.

  But at the door she was forced to wait for him to unlock it. When she would have slid past him, he grabbed her arm. “Not so fast, Mrs. Raffer. We’ve some talking to do.”

  She yanked her arm away. “I’m tired. We can talk tomorrow.” She stalked to the bathroom, terrified Nick would stop her before she covered the long distance to the door. A covert glance cast over her shoulder assured her he was content to glower after her.

  She spent as long as possible changing into the black silk nightgown trimmed with black lace th
at Pam had given her as a wedding gift. She brushed her teeth, then her hair, the full one hundred strokes this time—and still she was frightened to come out.

  Surely Nick was asleep by now, she told herself, as she switched off the bathroom light and eased open the door. The house was in darkness.

  On bare feet she padded softly across the cool tiles and took a pillow and a blanket from a burlap-covered alcove. No hand shot out of the darkness to stop her, no voice ordered her to halt. The bed made, she crawled beneath the blankets with a sigh of relief. She had one more night of reprieve . . . she thought.

  Chapter Eight

  Suddenly she was cold. She shot up. Her blanket was gone. She leaned over to retrieve it from the floor and saw the bare feet. With a gasp she raised her gaze, following the muscular line of calves up past the sinewy thighs and the narrow hips encased in white briefs.

  In the dimness her gaze made out the black curls that matted the bronzed chest, then moved up to encounter the laser eyes that pierced through her.

  “I’ll give you one minute to get back in my bed where you belong,” Nick said in a voice that was all the more chilling for its lack of emotion. “After that I’ll force you. It’s your choice.”

  Shaking, she watched him stride back into the darkness of the bedroom. Her woman’s mind wanted to rebel, but every instinct told her that she would be wise to obey his mandate.

  Instinct won out. With her dignity gathered around her like a blanket, she walked into the bedroom, head held high. From the king-size bed came the small red-orange light of a cigarette. She slid in between the sheets that were cool to her feverish skin and lay there on her back, afraid to move. At the sound of the cigarette being ground out in the ashtray she stiffened.

  Nick rolled over so that one leg pinned her beneath him. “Who was the man who kissed you tonight?” he asked roughly.

  His face was so close that his breath, warm with the scent of tobacco and wine, stirred her hair. “Jim Miller, the editor of the Santa Fe Sun.”