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Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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dinnertime speeches. Nineteen seventeen was as good a year as the benchmark year. . . . Which was?” She raised a querying eyebrow. When he didn’t respond she exhaled against the pain and said, “Why, 1963, of course. I thought all of you upper-crust gentlemen farmers knew that.”
“I don’t like to farm any more than I like port.”
“Well, garden then.” He felt her thigh quivering in his hand. He gripped it tighter. Portia continued, “A really good 1917 port has a bouquet that’s reminiscent of tobacco. Sunday nights! After the port—and Father’s lecture about port or NASA or lit-ra-ture or God knew what—and after our bolos levados and jam, we kids had nothing to do.” She inhaled deeply, then asked, “Owen, I didn’t really have to be here, did I? I could’ve signed everything in New York, had it notarized and mailed to you, right?”
He paused. “You could have, yes.”
“So, what does she really want?”
“You’re her sister.”
“Does that mean I’m supposed to know why she asked me? Or does it mean she wants my company?”
“She hasn’t seen much of you.”
Portia laughed breathily. “You got that little sucker yet?”
“It’s almost out.” Owen glanced at the doorway at which his wife, if inclined to enter the greenhouse at this moment, would catch them at whatever it was that they were doing. He probed again with the tweezers, felt her shiver. She bit her lip and remained silent. Then he lifted out the thorn and stood.
Still holding her translucent skirt, Portia turned. Owen caught another flash of panties then held up the tweezers, the tip bright with her blood. “You’d think it’d be bigger,” she said. “Thanks. You’re a man of many talents.”
“It’s not too bad. Just a pinprick. But you should put something on it. Bactine. Peroxide.”
“You have anything?”
“In the bathroom upstairs,” he answered. “The one next to our bedroom.”
She dabbed a Kleenex on the wound and examined the tissue. “Damn roses,” Portia muttered, and dropping her hem she started toward the stairs.
5
He encircled her with his arms and pressed his mouth against hers. It was not a gentle kiss. Her fingers found his solid biceps and pulled him closer. Against his bare chest she rubbed her breasts, covered by only the thin cloth of her blouse.
I’m out of control, Owen thought. Out of goddamn control. He closed his eyes and kissed her again.
His tongue slipped between her lips and played with hers. She gripped his lower lip between her teeth and sucked it into her mouth. Then she hesitated and turned away, uneasy.
“No,” he commanded. “Kiss me.”
“What if she sees us?”
Owen shushed her, observing that her protest was halfhearted. It was as if the risk of being caught was part of her passion. Perhaps most of it.
His hands dropped to her blouse. She shuddered as a button popped off and fell at their feet but she gave no other resistance. The garment separated, and the backs of his hands brushed her exposed breasts.
“Are you—?” she began but he kissed her again and spread his large hand, so that a thumb and little finger each touched a nipple. His other hand curled around the white flesh of her back and pulled her closer.
His hand yanked her skirt high and stuffed the hem of the cloth into her waistband, exposing pale skin. She lifted her hips but he stroked her taut silk panties once and then didn’t touch them again. Instead he took her hand, unzipped his trousers and pulled himself out, closing her fingers around him roughly, silently instructing her to stroke, hard, so hard he was nearly in pain. When she flagged he ordered, “No, harder!”
And she did.
A moment later he stopped her, urgently gripping her shoulders and turning her around so that her back was to him. He rested his palm on the back of her hair and pushed her forward, then tugged the panties down. With both hands on her hips he entered her hard and instantly lost whatever
“I don’t like to farm any more than I like port.”
“Well, garden then.” He felt her thigh quivering in his hand. He gripped it tighter. Portia continued, “A really good 1917 port has a bouquet that’s reminiscent of tobacco. Sunday nights! After the port—and Father’s lecture about port or NASA or lit-ra-ture or God knew what—and after our bolos levados and jam, we kids had nothing to do.” She inhaled deeply, then asked, “Owen, I didn’t really have to be here, did I? I could’ve signed everything in New York, had it notarized and mailed to you, right?”
He paused. “You could have, yes.”
“So, what does she really want?”
“You’re her sister.”
“Does that mean I’m supposed to know why she asked me? Or does it mean she wants my company?”
“She hasn’t seen much of you.”
Portia laughed breathily. “You got that little sucker yet?”
“It’s almost out.” Owen glanced at the doorway at which his wife, if inclined to enter the greenhouse at this moment, would catch them at whatever it was that they were doing. He probed again with the tweezers, felt her shiver. She bit her lip and remained silent. Then he lifted out the thorn and stood.
Still holding her translucent skirt, Portia turned. Owen caught another flash of panties then held up the tweezers, the tip bright with her blood. “You’d think it’d be bigger,” she said. “Thanks. You’re a man of many talents.”
“It’s not too bad. Just a pinprick. But you should put something on it. Bactine. Peroxide.”
“You have anything?”
“In the bathroom upstairs,” he answered. “The one next to our bedroom.”
She dabbed a Kleenex on the wound and examined the tissue. “Damn roses,” Portia muttered, and dropping her hem she started toward the stairs.
5
He encircled her with his arms and pressed his mouth against hers. It was not a gentle kiss. Her fingers found his solid biceps and pulled him closer. Against his bare chest she rubbed her breasts, covered by only the thin cloth of her blouse.
I’m out of control, Owen thought. Out of goddamn control. He closed his eyes and kissed her again.
His tongue slipped between her lips and played with hers. She gripped his lower lip between her teeth and sucked it into her mouth. Then she hesitated and turned away, uneasy.
“No,” he commanded. “Kiss me.”
“What if she sees us?”
Owen shushed her, observing that her protest was halfhearted. It was as if the risk of being caught was part of her passion. Perhaps most of it.
His hands dropped to her blouse. She shuddered as a button popped off and fell at their feet but she gave no other resistance. The garment separated, and the backs of his hands brushed her exposed breasts.
“Are you—?” she began but he kissed her again and spread his large hand, so that a thumb and little finger each touched a nipple. His other hand curled around the white flesh of her back and pulled her closer.
His hand yanked her skirt high and stuffed the hem of the cloth into her waistband, exposing pale skin. She lifted her hips but he stroked her taut silk panties once and then didn’t touch them again. Instead he took her hand, unzipped his trousers and pulled himself out, closing her fingers around him roughly, silently instructing her to stroke, hard, so hard he was nearly in pain. When she flagged he ordered, “No, harder!”
And she did.
A moment later he stopped her, urgently gripping her shoulders and turning her around so that her back was to him. He rested his palm on the back of her hair and pushed her forward, then tugged the panties down. With both hands on her hips he entered her hard and instantly lost whatever
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