Wolf in Tiger's Stripes Page 8

  When he returned, he’d changed to comfortable, casual clothing, and smelled ever so slightly of tangy aftershave. His curly hair was still damp and springing back from a cursory attempt to tidy it.

  “Now come into the kitchen and keep me company while I chef,” he said. “You’ll be safe enough, I promise. I was only joking about making you peel the spuds.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said, but he shook his head.

  “Not in my house. I don’t invite people for dinner and then expect them to work, or even sing for their supper. Speaking of which, I was quite taken with your choice of driving music, although it nearly blasted me out of the seat when I started your car.”

  Judith could only gasp. She had quite forgotten that she’d driven all the way north from Hobart under the influence of the redneck song album she’d put together with the intent of giving it to Bevan Keene as a pointed reminder of his earlier behavior.

  Is he joking? Or has he been reading my mind again, and knows exactly what I intended, and why, and even that I chickened out?

  Such thoughts took up her attention as she sipped her drink and watched as Bevan – having donned a ridiculously conventional apron – kept up a totally innocuous conversation as he peeled potatoes, poured a smidgen of oil into a huge, cast-iron frying pan, then started cooking the biggest, thickest, steak-fries Judith had ever seen. He took her by surprise a moment later when he turned, suddenly, and said in a mock-serious tone, “I warn you this is a test with only one correct answer. How do you want your steak cooked?”

  The Queenslander’s words leapt to her lips, but she stifled them, imagining Bevan’s reaction to such a crude description. Oh, why not, Judith Theresa? Then he’d be certain of your redneck tendencies. She almost laughed aloud at the thought, and it took her a moment to regain control.

  “Three moos,” she finally said, deliberately meeting his eyes to check his interpretation. They were smiling, perhaps even laughing – and with her instead of at her, for a change.

  “One when it steps into the pan, one when it turns over, and the third when it steps out onto the plate,” he replied without batting an eye. “I’ll pay that one. Wins you diner of the year award and makes it a lot easier for me. I always have trouble arranging things so the spuds and meat are done just right at just the same time, and it’s easier if we’re both having our steaks cooked to the same degree.”

  “Which makes two things in common,” she said without thinking about it. “We’d best be careful or we’ll wind up being compatible after all.”

  To which he didn’t reply, except to turn and look at her with an expression in his eyes that told her absolutely nothing, and yet far, far too much at the same time. When he turned back to the slowly browning steak fries, Judith couldn’t help feeling she’d been quietly observed walking on very thin ice by somebody who had no intention whatsoever of warning her.

  It served only to intensify her awareness of him. She found herself cataloguing all sorts of things – the way he moved, the texture of the sun-bleached hair on his arms, the way his mustache flexed when he smiled, the various expressions that came into being in his incredible gray eyes. An extremely self-contained individual, she decided, and realized this was only in keeping with all her earlier impressions of him.

  He was certainly at home in his own kitchen, which he had quite obviously organized to suit his own way of doing things. A truly gigantic spice rack held about twice the variety Judith ever used, and she had already been shown the large walk-in pantry with its racks of condiments in jars and tins.

  As the steak fries began to near readiness, he delved into a large refrigerator and emerged with a platter containing the steaks themselves. And, rather to Judith’s surprise, they weren’t the expected two-inch-thick T-bones, but rather smaller noisettes that were as thick as they were big around.

  “No objections to venison, I hope,” he said, and the look in his eyes told her there was only one correct answer to this question.

  “Certainly not,” she replied, trying at the same time to smother a small laugh of satisfaction. If it had been a test of some kind, the ploy had failed. Bevan Keene would have to seek new ways to shock or surprise her.

  What did you expect me to say, I wonder? “Oooh, I couldn’t possibly eat Bambi”?

  Her reaction, if it surprised him, didn’t make him reveal the fact. Indeed, he was so engrossed now in the intricacies of his cooking that he didn’t have time even to keep up a dialogue. His large hands were continuously busy, shifting the rounds of potato, moving the noisettes of venison careful around on the griddle section of the pan, stirring in rounds of onion, setting out a decanter of red wine to go with dinner.

  And almost before she realized it, dinner was there on the table, served with a casual élan that ignored the rather tricky timing she knew had been involved. Bevan whipped away his apron and graced her with a flamboyant little bow before seating her, then himself across the table from her.

  “I guess I’m safe enough here,” he said. He glanced down at his lap, and grinned hugely when Judith, caught by surprise, scowled, then dropped her gaze.

  You cunning bastard. I’ll bet you planned that one the whole time you were cooking.

  Still grinning, he poured two generous glasses of wine and lifted his in a salute.

  “And what shall we drink to?” he asked, only to continue without waiting for her to reply. “To tigers, or absent friends, or conservation – or just to us?”

  It was a blatant challenge. Everything about the gesture said so, none more so than the devilish gleam in his eyes. Judith was tempted, but restrained herself from stepping into the obvious trap.

  “I intend to drink to the chef,” she replied in a voice as calm as she could make it. And met his eyes only long enough to make her point before returning her attention to the meal in front of her.

  Bevan accepted the gesture with a modest nod, then murmured, “You’d best at least taste that before making such a compliment.” But he clinked glasses with her and sipped his wine with appreciation before lifting knife and fork to assault his venison.

  Thereafter, they ate in a shared silence, a time of heightened senses, of appreciation, and ... of anticipation. Bevan made the meal an astonishingly sensual experience without saying a word. His eyes spoke for him, his gestures enhanced the unique, silent conversation.

  When he sipped at his wine, his eyes told Judith it was in this way he would sip at her lips, her neck, her breasts. When he savored the unique taste of the venison, his eyes told her his tongue had other, even more pleasant uses. He watched her lips as she ate, and when he licked at his own, it was like a caress, a promise. All in relative silence, all in a sort of atmosphere that was invisible, yet unquestionable, unspoken, but tangible. And all of it enhanced by the sheer wonder of the simple but somehow amazing meal.

  Judith had tasted venison before, but only in restaurants, and only in portions adulterated by complicated sauces and preparation. Never had she been subjected to the unique gamy flavor of wild venison properly prepared for the table. And never, ever, had she tasted any food in such an aura of sensuality, under such an appraisal by a man who clearly found food to be a sexual delicacy to be tasted, savored, enjoyed in the same way as lovemaking itself.

  It was intoxicating and frightening at the same time. Never did he do a thing that could, of itself, be called to account – nothing that could be described in words as being improperly seductive or indelicate or offensive. But he was seducing Judith, and they both knew it. He was seducing her with the pleasures of the meal, the heightened aura of his own attitude, his attractiveness to her – her attractiveness to him! And she was letting him, even helping him.

  Because she, too, had always considered the ambience of good food, good wine, and good company to have distinct sexual overtones. It was just that she had never before found all three together under exactly the right circumstances. Until now.

  There was none of the blatancy she’d exhibited
by accidentally groping him at that earlier dinner together, but the memory was nonetheless tied into his entire attitude, the aura of this experience he was creating with her, for her.

  The entire experience became a sort of fantasy. It was like actually being in a silent movie alive with colors and textures and music – until finally the spell ended, broken by the sound of real words when Bevan finished the last morsel on his plate, then leaned back in his chair and spoke.

  “Well, Judith Theresa. What did you think of that?”

  11

  It wasn’t the sound of his voice that brought Judith back to reality with a snap, nor was it the hint of smug satisfaction in his voice. It was the use of her whole name, the inclusion of the Theresa in a strangely comfortable, complete way, giving the usage a wholeness that somehow seemed just ... right.

  Except that he shouldn’t even have known her middle name. She didn’t use it, it had never appeared on her bylines, nobody else ever used it except family members. Like Vanessa!

  “Quite, quite splendid,” she replied honestly, and patted at her lips with a napkin to cover the confusion she suddenly felt at the sense of intimacy he had prolonged and now enhanced by using her own name against her while she was trapped by his eyes.

  Judith Theresa. Nobody had ever put quite that sound to the name before, nor spoken it with quite that sense of intimacy. Her parents had both used Judith Theresa when she was in trouble, other family members like Vanessa to indicate some element of the unusual, the serious, in a conversation. But Bevan Keene, who shouldn’t even have known it, had added an entirely new dimension to her own name.

  It was as if he was able to know her just by looking at her, able to reach out and touch her without actual physical contact. Once again, his use of the word “dossier” flooded into her mind, but now she didn’t feel quite so much investigated as she felt exposed, as if this unusual man could actually read her mind, see past whatever human facades she might present, and find the real Judith Theresa behind them all. His gaze reached out to touch her, to probe at her awareness, enlarging it, giving it new substance, new meaning. And she couldn’t stop him, not that she really wanted to. What she really wanted was ...

  Judith shook her head suddenly, violently, forcing herself out of this dreamlike, hypnotic state. But even with the return to reality, she felt her entire body still somehow reacting to Bevan Keene’s spell. Her nipples were thrusting against the fine fabric of her bra, and she could feel herself wriggling in her chair, responding to a fluttery, airy feeling in the very core of her being.

  And he knew it! From those pale gray eyes, the devil laughed, and Judith knew her own inner devils were chuckling in response. That wide, mobile mouth smiled as he reached out to refill her wine glass, and she couldn’t for the life of her move to halt his gesture, couldn’t speak to say that she’d had enough, more than enough. And wanted more, but not of wine.

  Although the wine, dark red, blood red, held its own mystique. She had taken enough and she knew it, but she wanted more, somehow needed more, just as she needed more of this strange magic Bevan Keene was creating without so much as touching her. But she feared it, as she feared his apparent ability to reach out and know her, to somehow strip away her defenses as he might, soon, strip away her clothing.

  Around them, the room seemed to have dissolved and reshaped itself. The huge country kitchen, a curious mix of historic and modern in daylight, now seemed almost Gothic, with shadows that lived, and an overall sense of ... foreboding?

  Judith felt herself shiver, and knew it was not only the atmosphere, not only the strength of Bevan’s presence, but her own instinctive reaction to him that caused this frisson of alarm. She seemed to watch it all as a sort of separate, detached observer, seeing her hand reach out to take the newly filled glass, seeing it drawn to her lips while Bevan held that other Judith with his eyes, smoky eyes that looked over his own glass as he licked the rim of it, then tilted it to let the warm red wine flow over his sensual lips.

  His eyes were magnetic, drawing that other Judith closer, forcing her to lean toward him as her mouth tasted the wine, her free hand drifting slowly across the table to meet his own. There was an instant – fleeting and then more obvious – when his fingers touched hers, then slid past them to touch at the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, stroking and caressing and somehow serving to calm her, mesmerize her, and seduce her.

  In this strange omniscience, it seemed perfectly natural – having taken her fingers, her wrist, having begun to sensitize her to his touch – that he should then rise, still holding her, and move around the table toward her. Even more natural that she should move up out of her chair to meet him, that when his free hand flowed around her waist she should curl into its grasp, her entire body vibrating, now, to the magic of his touch.

  Her nostrils filled with the scent of him, a unique blend of the man himself and the pungent but subtle aftershave he used. As his mouth moved down to claim her own, she was vaguely conscious of the taste of him, of the bristly touch of his mustache beneath her nose, but more conscious of the way she seemed to fit just right against him, her breasts against his chest, her height perfect to fit her to his kiss, her body ready for his embrace.

  Somewhere in the back recesses of her mind, a tiny, fragile voice cried out in objection, a voice of reason, of sanity, a voice not befuddled by wine, not tormented by the needs of the body that now threatened to melt under the touch of his fingers, the strength of his embrace. But Judith watched herself ignore that voice, watched herself flow against him, her bones like jelly, her common sense dissipated like smoke.

  No, no, no. The weak, fragile inner voice was but a whisper. Not him, not here, not now! But it was overridden by the roaring of her own heartbeat in her ears, the soaring thunder he created, then orchestrated as his fingers ran the scales up and down her spine as if it were a keyboard.

  Judith met his kiss, her lips parted to accept his mouth, to feed on his kisses. Dessert! Her fingers moved into the shaggy, curly hair at the nape of his neck, seeking to draw him closer, to assist in melding their bodies together. Deep below the pit of her stomach, an airy hollowness was filling with fluttering sensations. Lower still she felt herself flooding with moisture, her fickle body preparing for him, yearning for the rigid, throbbing erection she could feel warm against her.

  As his hands, butterfly light in their touch and yet crackling with sensation like static, roamed up and down her back, cupping and exploring the terrain of her hips, her lower back, and beyond, Judith could feel herself writhing in response. The warning voice was drowned out entirely now, as was all other sound, all other sensation. She existed only for whatever was developing between them, a riot of feeling and touch and smell and taste. His tongue was exploring in her mouth, fighting with her as she sought to taste him, to experience the very essence of him.

  Subliminally, a part of her was aware of the sound of an arriving vehicle, the faint, distant sound of dogs voicing warning. Perhaps Bevan was also, yet in her confusion when the kitchen door was suddenly flung open and his name was called in urgent tones, Judith found no evidence of it. They clung together, unable to break the spell he had created, then turned as one to look with astonishment at the intruder.

  “Bevan!”

  Again the voice called his name, but now there was a different sense of urgency that cut through the atmosphere of the room like a siren. The speaker was a tall, slender woman, dark-haired, vibrant and elegant in every aspect. She wore designer jeans as if she had been poured into them, and the expensive silk blouse above them, the classic silk scarf at her throat, all shouted compliments to her taste.

  Bevan released her, but even that gesture he somehow turned into a sensuous movement, a promise of ... something. There was no sense of panic, no feeling of being discarded, no sense that he felt he’d somehow been caught out. Judith, on the other hand, felt distinctly that way, and she could feel herself cringing inside.

  “Roberta! You’re a surprise,
” he said, once he’d turned to face the woman but still, surprisingly, maintained a hand around Judith’s waist, his fingers only lightly in contact but sticking as if sewn to her belt.

  “Obviously,” replied the dark-haired woman with a quirk of one high-arched brow and a twist of her lips that could have been a measure of anger or amusement or both.

  “I was on my way home,” she said, “and I happened to notice a spotlight flashing up on that ridge on the Honeymoon Run[, so I thought I’d best stop and let you know immediately.”

  “Too right,” Bevan replied, and now he did release Judith, although not before she felt the change in his entire demeanor. It was as if he’d been jolted by some cosmic force. He was suddenly totally alert, his muscles tensed as if for battle.

  “Well,” the woman said, “I didn’t know if you had somebody shooting up there, but you so seldom do, except on weekends, and—”

  “And it’ll be that little redheaded bastard again. You can count on it,” Bevan snarled. “Maybe this time I’ll be able to catch him in the act for once.”

  Striding from the room, he returned a moment later carrying a high-powered rifle and stuffing a handful of ammunition into his pocket. “If I do nothing else, I might cost somebody a new set of tires,” he growled with a savage smile. “Do us a favor, Roberta, and give the coppers a ring. Maybe between us we can nail this joker right and proper for a change.”

  And without so much as an explanatory word to Judith, he was out the door. The dark-haired woman turned to the telephone, leaving Judith to stand in silence, wondering what she ought to say or do.

  Judith listened to one half of a conversation that made only partial sense – a cryptic description of roads and gates and paddocks with names she couldn’t understand, then watched as the woman put down the telephone and turned to focus dark, speculative eyes on her.