bleary, raddled, lecherous face hovered over her, breathing heavily. Wave after wave of Scotch-laden fumes covered her face, choking her. She opened her eyes, staring up at him, and began to scream.
"Dammit to hell!" Lincoln swore, scrambling off her in panicked haste and retying his robe with nerveless fingers. "Stop it, for God's sake! Shut up!"
She could see it from a distance, from her perch up among the clouds. Jessica was lying there, her caftan half off her slender body, her blue eyes glazed and blank, her mouth open in a scream that kept coming. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.
And then the room was filled with people. Lots of people. Peter Kinsey, his fair hair rumpled, standing helplessly by, Jasper Kinsey, rage and something akin to fear darkening his distinguished face. The talentless actress was by his side, a negligee pulled around her, unaware that the hastily donned robe was completely transparent. They all stood there by Lincoln's embarrassed, infuriated figure and watched her as she screamed.
And then she was back, pulled into someone's strong arms, her face pressed against a warm, hard chest, and the screams were gone, leaving the room deafening in its silence.
"What the hell happened?" She could hear Springer's voice through his chest, feel his hands on her back, stroking, soothing, gentle hands. Her breath was still coming in shuddering gasps, her face and hands were tingling, her mind ripped free from that merciful blank. She knew where she was, and what she had done.
No one had bothered to answer Springer's question. She could hear Jasper Kinsey's voice, low and soothing, murmuring hurried apologies to X. Rickford Lincoln. She could feel Peter standing there helplessly, afraid to risk his father's displeasure by coming to her, afraid to alienate her by adding his excuses to his father's.
Springer's short, obscene expletive brought them all up short. "Don't let us bother you," he snapped, scooping up Jessica's trembling form in his arms. She barely weighed more than a kitten, he thought absently, his arms tightening their hold. She turned her face against his shoulder, hiding from those wondering, condemning faces.
"Is... is she all right?" Peter had the decency to ask, putting a tentative hand on one limp arm. She flinched as if burned, keeping her face averted, and Springer shifted her closer against him.
"She'll be fine," he said, not particularly certain of that fact. "I'll take care of her."
"Would you, Springer?" There was real gratitude in Peter's voice as he accompanied them to the door. "I'd come with you, but I think I'd better help Dad try to smooth a few ruffled feathers."
Springer looked down at him over the limp figure cradled in his arms, and his eyes darkened in contempt. "You do that," he said lightly, no sound of his disapproval filtering through his voice. "I'll take care of her," he said again.
The night air was cool and salty on her skin. Jessica could feel the shift in the rhythm of his footsteps as he moved from the terrace to the soft white sand, but she was still unwilling to raise her head from its hiding place against his strong shoulder. Slowly she became more aware of him as the tingling lessened in her limbs. He had taken off his belt, and his shirt was open and untucked. The soft white cotton cushioned her head, but warm, smooth flesh pressed against her arm and the open caftan that he had pulled hastily back around her trembling body. She wondered when he'd done it but knew that it had been his hands and no one else's who had touched her. And with distant despair she could feel the strands wrap tighter around her, that tenuous, torturous, spider's-web stickiness tying her to him. She was a fat, juicy butterfly, caught in his trap, and he was a tarantula, keeping her captive, waiting till his hunger grew and he could feast on her when her struggles grew too weak.
Or was she the spider? The black widow, mesmerizing him, pulling him closer while
"Dammit to hell!" Lincoln swore, scrambling off her in panicked haste and retying his robe with nerveless fingers. "Stop it, for God's sake! Shut up!"
She could see it from a distance, from her perch up among the clouds. Jessica was lying there, her caftan half off her slender body, her blue eyes glazed and blank, her mouth open in a scream that kept coming. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.
And then the room was filled with people. Lots of people. Peter Kinsey, his fair hair rumpled, standing helplessly by, Jasper Kinsey, rage and something akin to fear darkening his distinguished face. The talentless actress was by his side, a negligee pulled around her, unaware that the hastily donned robe was completely transparent. They all stood there by Lincoln's embarrassed, infuriated figure and watched her as she screamed.
And then she was back, pulled into someone's strong arms, her face pressed against a warm, hard chest, and the screams were gone, leaving the room deafening in its silence.
"What the hell happened?" She could hear Springer's voice through his chest, feel his hands on her back, stroking, soothing, gentle hands. Her breath was still coming in shuddering gasps, her face and hands were tingling, her mind ripped free from that merciful blank. She knew where she was, and what she had done.
No one had bothered to answer Springer's question. She could hear Jasper Kinsey's voice, low and soothing, murmuring hurried apologies to X. Rickford Lincoln. She could feel Peter standing there helplessly, afraid to risk his father's displeasure by coming to her, afraid to alienate her by adding his excuses to his father's.
Springer's short, obscene expletive brought them all up short. "Don't let us bother you," he snapped, scooping up Jessica's trembling form in his arms. She barely weighed more than a kitten, he thought absently, his arms tightening their hold. She turned her face against his shoulder, hiding from those wondering, condemning faces.
"Is... is she all right?" Peter had the decency to ask, putting a tentative hand on one limp arm. She flinched as if burned, keeping her face averted, and Springer shifted her closer against him.
"She'll be fine," he said, not particularly certain of that fact. "I'll take care of her."
"Would you, Springer?" There was real gratitude in Peter's voice as he accompanied them to the door. "I'd come with you, but I think I'd better help Dad try to smooth a few ruffled feathers."
Springer looked down at him over the limp figure cradled in his arms, and his eyes darkened in contempt. "You do that," he said lightly, no sound of his disapproval filtering through his voice. "I'll take care of her," he said again.
The night air was cool and salty on her skin. Jessica could feel the shift in the rhythm of his footsteps as he moved from the terrace to the soft white sand, but she was still unwilling to raise her head from its hiding place against his strong shoulder. Slowly she became more aware of him as the tingling lessened in her limbs. He had taken off his belt, and his shirt was open and untucked. The soft white cotton cushioned her head, but warm, smooth flesh pressed against her arm and the open caftan that he had pulled hastily back around her trembling body. She wondered when he'd done it but knew that it had been his hands and no one else's who had touched her. And with distant despair she could feel the strands wrap tighter around her, that tenuous, torturous, spider's-web stickiness tying her to him. She was a fat, juicy butterfly, caught in his trap, and he was a tarantula, keeping her captive, waiting till his hunger grew and he could feast on her when her struggles grew too weak.
Or was she the spider? The black widow, mesmerizing him, pulling him closer while
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