Read Online Banish Misfortune by Anne Stuart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne Stuart
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telling him to go away, and the moment he came within reach, her touch would poison him, whether she wanted to or not.
"Relax," his voice rumbled as he felt her body tense in his arms. "No one's going to hurt you."
At the sound of the patent lie she began to struggle, but his arms only tightened. "Stop fighting me, Jessie," he whispered.
"Let me down." Her voice was muffled against his shoulder, hoarse and rusty and raw with pain. For a moment it seemed as if he was going to ignore her, and she added the final, ignominious concession. "Please, Springer."
Slowly, slowly his body came to a halt; slowly, slowly he loosened his hold to let her slide down the length of his body. Her bare feet touched the sand, and she tried to move away from the protection of his hands. The lights of the house were far away, and then suddenly they seemed much farther—bright, glistening little pinpricks glaring at her. A moment later she found herself sitting in the sand, her head pushed between her knees, a strong hand kneading the back of her neck.
"Take slow, deep breaths," he ordered, and she dutifully complied, breathing in the ocean's smell and the faint, tantalizing scent of Springer. The spinning gradually faded, reality began to intrude with a sickening rush, and Jessica shuddered.
"Oh no, what did I do?" she moaned, lifting her head to stare sightlessly at the moon-silvered ocean.
"That's what I was wondering," Springer drawled, removing that marvelously soothing hand from the back of her neck. "What happened in there?"
Wrapping her arms around her long legs, she rested her chin on her knees with a weary gesture, still refusing to look at her rescuer. "I don't really know. I think it was the Scotch."
"The Scotch?"
She did turn to him then, her face composed, belying the continued trembling in her limbs. "He was breathing Scotch fumes on me. I don't like Scotch drinkers," she said simply.
Springer was watching her out of those unreadable eyes. "What were you doing in his room at two in the morning?" he questioned suddenly.
A mocking smile curved her mouth. "Don't be naive, Springer—you know as well as I do what I was doing there. Cementing a business merger."
"Well, I think you may have botched it up," he replied mildly enough, not rising to her bait. "Lincoln didn't look very happy. Nor, for that matter, did your future father-in-law. Tell me, do you do this sort of thing often?"
She considered lying to him, but the trembling in her body, instead of lessening, was unaccountably increasing. She wished he'd put his hand back on her neck, soothing the strained muscles, that he'd put his arms around her again and press her against that soft white shirt. She shook her head, to banish such demoralizing thoughts, and answered honestly enough. "No." Her voice was low. "No, I don't."
"Then why did you tonight?" His voice sounded no more than distantly curious, for which she was glad. If she'd caught a note of pity in that deep, husky drawl, it would have been the final straw.
"It didn't appear that I had any choice," she replied faintly. Light shivers were rippling over her body, and surreptitiously she pulled the caftan closer around her shoulders. The silk offered her no warmth at all, not when she needed the warmth of a human touch.
And it wasn't human touch she wanted, she realized belatedly. She had no desire at all to track down Peter and seek the comfort she knew he would offer. She wanted Springer's warmth, Springer's comfort. Damn him.
"Why the Scotch?" he said suddenly. He must have seen her shivering, for suddenly his large strong hands reached out and caught her trembling shoulders, kneading them with a light, sure touch that sapped some of the tension from her.
Raising her head, she closed her eyes, arching into his touch like a starving kitten. "I suppose because my parents were alcoholics," she said distantly. "Though I don't remember either of them drinking Scotch. It was bourbon when they were younger, and
"Relax," his voice rumbled as he felt her body tense in his arms. "No one's going to hurt you."
At the sound of the patent lie she began to struggle, but his arms only tightened. "Stop fighting me, Jessie," he whispered.
"Let me down." Her voice was muffled against his shoulder, hoarse and rusty and raw with pain. For a moment it seemed as if he was going to ignore her, and she added the final, ignominious concession. "Please, Springer."
Slowly, slowly his body came to a halt; slowly, slowly he loosened his hold to let her slide down the length of his body. Her bare feet touched the sand, and she tried to move away from the protection of his hands. The lights of the house were far away, and then suddenly they seemed much farther—bright, glistening little pinpricks glaring at her. A moment later she found herself sitting in the sand, her head pushed between her knees, a strong hand kneading the back of her neck.
"Take slow, deep breaths," he ordered, and she dutifully complied, breathing in the ocean's smell and the faint, tantalizing scent of Springer. The spinning gradually faded, reality began to intrude with a sickening rush, and Jessica shuddered.
"Oh no, what did I do?" she moaned, lifting her head to stare sightlessly at the moon-silvered ocean.
"That's what I was wondering," Springer drawled, removing that marvelously soothing hand from the back of her neck. "What happened in there?"
Wrapping her arms around her long legs, she rested her chin on her knees with a weary gesture, still refusing to look at her rescuer. "I don't really know. I think it was the Scotch."
"The Scotch?"
She did turn to him then, her face composed, belying the continued trembling in her limbs. "He was breathing Scotch fumes on me. I don't like Scotch drinkers," she said simply.
Springer was watching her out of those unreadable eyes. "What were you doing in his room at two in the morning?" he questioned suddenly.
A mocking smile curved her mouth. "Don't be naive, Springer—you know as well as I do what I was doing there. Cementing a business merger."
"Well, I think you may have botched it up," he replied mildly enough, not rising to her bait. "Lincoln didn't look very happy. Nor, for that matter, did your future father-in-law. Tell me, do you do this sort of thing often?"
She considered lying to him, but the trembling in her body, instead of lessening, was unaccountably increasing. She wished he'd put his hand back on her neck, soothing the strained muscles, that he'd put his arms around her again and press her against that soft white shirt. She shook her head, to banish such demoralizing thoughts, and answered honestly enough. "No." Her voice was low. "No, I don't."
"Then why did you tonight?" His voice sounded no more than distantly curious, for which she was glad. If she'd caught a note of pity in that deep, husky drawl, it would have been the final straw.
"It didn't appear that I had any choice," she replied faintly. Light shivers were rippling over her body, and surreptitiously she pulled the caftan closer around her shoulders. The silk offered her no warmth at all, not when she needed the warmth of a human touch.
And it wasn't human touch she wanted, she realized belatedly. She had no desire at all to track down Peter and seek the comfort she knew he would offer. She wanted Springer's warmth, Springer's comfort. Damn him.
"Why the Scotch?" he said suddenly. He must have seen her shivering, for suddenly his large strong hands reached out and caught her trembling shoulders, kneading them with a light, sure touch that sapped some of the tension from her.
Raising her head, she closed her eyes, arching into his touch like a starving kitten. "I suppose because my parents were alcoholics," she said distantly. "Though I don't remember either of them drinking Scotch. It was bourbon when they were younger, and
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