Surrender, Baby Page 10

  He might as well have stepped out of a dream, full-blown, Randy admitted to herself secretly. Her dream.

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” he assured her, his voice resonant, full of male nuances. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Yes, thank you ... whatever you’re having.”

  He went to the sideboard and poured two fingers of Scotch from a crystal decanter, then added ice to the glass.

  His back was to her, but Randy felt a little dizzy as she walked toward him, as if she were entering a force field that had risen up between them. Something made her want to hang back: perhaps it was the way her thoughts were racing. She was awash with anticipation, but she had no clear idea what she expected.

  He startled her when he turned around. She was close enough to take the glass from his hand, and if their fingers hadn’t brushed, she might never have let out the surprised, apologetic sound. As it was she jerked back as if he’d burned her, and there was no way to recover gracefully. She could feel herself blushing as she tried to smile and shrug it off. “It’s all right.” she said, glancing at him as she took the drink. “I’m fine.”

  Their gazes collided with almost physical force. Her head was tilted back slightly, and as she looked up at him, she knew it was going to be virtually impossible to tear herself away. His eyes were sinfully beautiful, so rich and verdant there was almost nothing she could do but gaze back at him. She could feel the pull of his interest all through her, tugging on her in deep and vibrant ways. Even her throat felt as if it were quivering. The perturbations were similar to those buzzing inside her when she’d been on his bike, but finer, much more exquisite.

  It amazed her that he could bring her such pleasure with an accidental touch. Were her nerves that taut? One stroke and it felt as if they would resonate forever, like the strings on the beach troubadours’ mandolins.

  As though Randy’s thoughts had summoned it, faint strains of music swirled up, drifting through their open terrace doors from somewhere in the near distance. Within seconds the music had grown louder and the beat more frenzied and insistent, pulling her attention away from the man standing before her. A raucous shriek of laughter made her start.

  “What was that?” she asked, turning toward the doors.

  “Carnaval. The parades must have started.”

  Geoff walked to the doors and shut them, muffling the sounds, but the intrusion of reality had done its job. The element of surprise that had held both of them spellbound was gone. Only the tension remained, a high-pitched awareness of each other that increased as he turned back to her.

  “Is the drink all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure it’s fine.” She took a sip, hoping the icy liquor would slow her pulse. In the silence that followed, she began to realize what her nerves were all about. She’d had years to build a resistance to rough-and-ready biker types. Thanks to Edna, she had a natural immunity to rogues. But a rogue in a tuxedo? She hadn’t been prepared for that combination. It must have been the sight of Geoff Dias in black tie, looking amazingly sexy and aristocratic at the same time, that had temporarily stripped her of her defenses.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” he said. “Cheiro de Amor awaits.”

  “Yes, let’s go.” She was glad to be on their way. Given how the night had started, she was looking forward to the distractions of a black-tie party—and especially the safety of a crowd.

  Eight

  SO THIS IS CHEIRO de Amor, Randy thought, thoroughly surprised and enchanted by the old-world Viennese elegance of the nightclub. Just moments before, she and Geoff had walked through the club’s front doors and into a world of sparkling chandeliers and ornate candelabras. The gilded extravagance of the baroque decor was breathtaking, including lush red velvet draperies and crystal figurines that resembled bacchanalian maidens. If she hadn’t known she was in the tropics, she might have thought she’d wandered into a European opera house. The place was almost decadent, it was so opulent.

  No, it was decadent, she decided in the next breath, noticing the scanty French-maid outfits the hostesses were wearing. The one who greeted her and Geoff looked as if she’d misplaced her panties. More like an old-world bawdy house than an opera house. Randy decided as she and Geoff followed a particularly voluptuous Carioca hostess to a table for two near a heavily draped stage.

  The sensual Latin music was a little disorienting too. Randy had to admit. One expected to hear a Strauss waltz instead of the low-pitched tribal drumbeats of a “dirty dance” like the lambada. As elegant as the place was, it fairly throbbed with an earthy and mysterious sexual quality.

  All in all, Randy was intrigued. She’d only caught fleeting glimpses of the club’s other patrons as she and Geoff moved through the low-lit ambience to their table. Some had been in black tie, others in more elaborate costumes. All wore masks, which created a faintly ominous aspect that might have concerned her more if it hadn’t been Carnaval. Still, there was a sense of foreboding in the dark mood of the room.

  Even her companion appeared somewhat sinister as she glanced at him across their table. Geoff was unusually quiet as he returned her gaze, as if he were evaluating something about her. Too quiet, she decided. The black domino mask he wore drew attention to his eyes and shadowed his face, playing dramatic tricks with his features. It carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, and the sensual line of his lower lip seemed to whisper of a hidden capacity for both tenderness and cruelty. He could have been one of Satan’s disciples, if not the Prince of Darkness himself.

  Randy touched one of the graceful white feathers of her own mask and looked around the room, suddenly very curious about what sort of club it was. “What does cheiro de amor mean?” she asked Geoff.

  He drew a long-stemmed red rose out of the bud vase on their table and handed it to her, a suggestion of a smile on his lips. “The smell of love,” he said.

  “The rose, you mean?” She brought the petals to her nose and breathed in a musky, clinging fragrance that couldn’t have been the rose’s natural scent.

  “No, I mean the club. It’s called the smell of love.”

  “Smell?” Randy repeated the word, certain she couldn’t possibly have heard him right. She glanced furtively at the rose, then returned it to the vase, posthaste.

  Before she could question Geoff any further, their

  French maid arrived with a bucket of iced champagne and two batidas, Brazilian drinks made of guava nectar, green lemon juice, and cachaça, a fiery sugarcane liqueur. One sip and Randy decided the drink’s popularity was based on potency rather than taste. It had the kick of a twenty-mule team.

  Geoff briefly conversed with the waitress in Portuguese, apparently asking her to run a tab. Randy began to fish through her purse, planning to show the woman Hugh’s picture, but Geoff signaled her to hold off with a quick shake of his head.

  The brassy sounds of a bossa nova drew Randy’s attention to the opposite end of the room where a small live orchestra played on a balcony that was suspended from the wall above the dance floor. The dancers below wriggled and writhed with abandon, some of the women wearing little more than tanga. The men wore a variety of outfits, mostly fiendish in nature. Devils abounded in red tights, tails, and horns.

  Randy didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled. It looked like something out of Dante’s Inferno. One gyrating woman appeared to be wearing nothing more than a sheer black body stocking with budding roses hiding the nipples of her breasts and a necklace of roses adorning her bottom like a G-string. The only other rose on her was dead center over her navel.

  Her partner was also dressed in form-fitting black, but his mask was an elaborate affair that included a black mane of hair and wolf’s ears. The two of them didn’t dance so much as circle, twirling and sniffing like two wild creatures engaging in a mating ritual.

  “Are you sure this was the club Hugh came to?” Randy asked Geoff, trying to imagine her fiancé in such a place.

  “According to the c
abbie, he might as well have lived here.”

  Randy shook her head, unable to take it in. Not only couldn’t she imagine Hugh in a flesh palace like Cheiro de Amor, she’d often wondered if he might be under-sexed. When she’d told him she wanted to wait until they were married, he hadn’t pressed her as most men would have. He’d always been patient and understanding.

  Could Hugh have had a whole other life she knew nothing about? Randy helped herself to another drink of her batida, a deep pull this time. None of this made sense, but then nothing in her life had since Geoff Dias showed up. Maybe he’d kidnapped Hugh, she thought fancifully, taking the scenario to its absurd extremes. It was odd how Geoff had turned up just after Hugh disappeared. But then the ad she’d placed explained that ... didn’t it?

  She felt something brush her hand and turned back to Geoff. His fingertips just touched hers, and she was struck with how ruggedly beautiful his hands were, how much latent male power they conveyed. The backs were large and strong, roped with tendons, burned by the sun. But his fingers revealed a different man. They were extraordinarily long and sensual, imbued with the sensitivity and fine-motor control of an artist. Stranger yet, his nails looked as if they weren’t entirely unfamiliar with a manicurist’s file. Artist, biker, or mercenary? she wondered. His hands were full of contradictions, like him.

  “As long as we have the champagne ... ” he said, taking the bottle from the bucket. He filled two flutes and handed Randy one. “To Carnaval,” he said, touching his glass to hers. “A feast for the senses.”

  “To Carnaval,” Randy echoed. She’d always loved champagne. As she sipped it she relished the crisp dry taste and the geyser of bubbles that tickled her lips. The wine began to have a mellowing effect almost immediately, and she settled back into her chair, relaxing a bit. “Shouldn’t we be making inquiries about Hugh?” she asked, feeling vaguely guilty about enjoying herself.

  “We will,” Geoff assured her. “Once I’ve had a chance to get the lay of this place, I’ll ask some questions. In the meantime, enjoy the show.” He nodded toward the dance floor.

  Randy turned to look. The woman in the body stocking seemed to be conducting a one-woman floor show. She’d abandoned the wolf, and she was flirting madly with every demon, devil, and gargoyle in sight. Randy felt a moment of alarm when the woman began dancing her way toward their table. She apparently had Geoff in mind for her next conquest, and Randy wanted to trip her as she wriggled past.

  Much to Randy’s relief, Geoff shook his head when the woman tried to induce him to dance with her. Undaunted, she writhed sinuously around his chair, playing with his mask and his hair, slinking up behind him to nuzzle his neck. With amazing suppleness, she arched her spine over the back of his chair and stroked his ear with her tongue like a cat lapping cream. A moment later she’d come around the other side of the chair and was curling into his lap, rubbing her nearly naked body all over him.

  Randy’s shock turned to indignation as the woman entwined her arms around his neck, clearly intending to kiss him. The rest of it was theatrics, but a kiss, that was just too damn intimate. Randy’s jaw began to ache, and she realized with surprise that she was clenching it. Why was Geoff allowing the woman to maul him? Why didn’t he put a stop to it?

  Randy rose in a huff, looking for the ladies’ room, and collided with catwoman’s partner. “Excuse me,” Randy said, assuming the wolfman was on his way to collect his promiscuous partner—and perhaps punch Geoff in the eye. Randy wouldn’t have minded either at that moment.

  But the wolfman had other things in mind.

  He slipped his hand around Randy’s waist and slowly drew her against him. His muscular body was encased in dancerlike black tights, and his black mesh tank top revealed a triangle of chest hair that streaked all the way to his belly button. His eyes glowed luminously through the holes of his mask.

  “You like to dance?” he asked, swaying to the beat of the pulsing music. His voice was as mellifluous as a samba and rife with Latin inflections.

  Randy had every intention of turning him down. But as she glanced over her shoulder and saw Geoff still entangled with the catwoman, she decided she would like nothing better than to dance. She accepted with a flirty bat of her eyelashes, and the wolfman wasted no time splaying his hand over her derriere and drawing her into the orbit of his rotating pelvis.

  “You do the forbidden dance?” he asked, urging her to move with him.

  “If it’s forbidden,” she told him boldly, “I do it.”

  His hand tightened possessively on her bottom. Staring into her eyes, he began to swivel even more seductively, cranking her around with him. If they’d been churning butter, Randy decided, they would have had a bucket by now. “Couldn’t we spin or something?” she asked.

  “Ôba!” he said, an ecstatic groan in his voice.

  Randy assumed that must be Portuguese for “spin,” because he began to twirl her around madly. She managed to catch a glance of Geoff as she turned, and saw with great satisfaction that she had his attention at last. He didn’t look happy, she noted. Neither did the catwoman, who’d been ejected from his lap.

  “Ôba, ôba!” the wolfman cried again.

  Ôba or not. Randy was ready to land. The spinning was making her dizzy and her heart was beginning to pound. But how to get that across to her highly enthusiastic partner? She tried to free her hand, but he seemed to be misreading her signals. He whipped her into his arms and bent her over backward, gripping her by the waist with both hands and shaking her out like a throw rug. Even upside down, Randy could see the jealous fire building in Geoff’s eyes.

  “Don’t!” Randy squealed as the wolfman ran his hands up her rib cage, tickling a scream out of her. She couldn’t help herself. There were certain vulnerable spots on her body that sent her into nearly hysterical fits. Unfortunately, her squeals seemed to incite the wolfman.

  “Ôba!” he groaned, his hands all over her.

  “Stop!” she shrieked, trying to get up.

  Geoff rose from his chair, full of menace. Randy saw him coming. She also saw the darkening fury of his intention, but there wasn’t time to warn the wolfman. There wasn’t time for anything! She was jerked up to a vertical position as her partner was ripped bodily from her arms.

  “May I cut in?” Geoff asked, lethally polite. He’d picked the wolfman up by his armpits and was holding him suspended in the air.

  “No!” Randy exclaimed. But to her dismay, the wolfman was frantically nodding yes. “Put him down, Geoff,” she ordered, a little discouraged at the wolfman’s lack of gallantry. Weren’t Latin men supposed to be famous for their displays of machismo? At the very least she would like to have seen some foot-stamping or chin-thrusting. Instead, the moment the wolfman’s feet touched the ground, he shot off as if hounds were at his heels.

  “I’m not sure I want to dance with you,” Randy informed Geoff, favoring him with her version of an upthrust chin. She cocked her head and shot him a look that said “Buzz off, buster.”

  It worked better than she’d expected. His eyes ignited, flaring inside the black mask with a warning that made Randy catch her breath and step back. If there was a man alive capable of breathing fire, Geoff Dias was that man, she realized.

  “Maybe I can help you make up your mind,” he said, closing the distance she’d put between them. He searched her face as if he meant to devour her, and then he placed his hand exactly where her former partner’s had been, on the rounded curve of her derriere. “You seemed to like this when he did it.”

  “I did like it,” she lied.

  His fingers sank into her flesh, and his thumb closed over her hipbone. “Wrong answer, sweetness,” he said roughly. “You’re not allowed to like it with anyone else. Not with him, not with Hugh, not with anybody but me.”

  He stared into her eyes, his fingers tensing, relaxing. And then he began to work his hand slowly, massaging her derriere in ways that made Randy’s muscles grip and ache. The shock of it heated her blo
od to a low flame and sent a languorous weakness spilling through her veins. The shock of it thrilled her. She tried to protest, but he pressed his other hand to her mouth, silencing her with long, long fingers.

  Randy went still immediately, though she couldn’t have explained why she was allowing him to handle her in such an intimate way. They were shadowed by darkness, and she doubted if the other patrons could see them, but still, they were in a public place. Yet something about the silent authority of his fingers on her mouth kept her motionless. Something about their pressure against the pliancy of her lips, their warmth and firmness.

  She should have been fighting, but she could feel her lips tingling, responding in a way that made it seem as if she were kissing his fingertips, a willing victim. He pressed into her softness, seducing her with slow, hypnotic strokes, the way a cobra enthralls its prey.

  When he seemed persuaded that she wouldn’t put up a fight, he began to move his hand down her throat, slowly, creating a mesmerizing friction as he curved his palm to the lines of her neck, molded it to her collarbone and then drew it even lower, measuring the quick rise and fall of her breathing. Each touch was spellbinding in the way it made her anticipate the next one.

  Her eyelids drooped, wanting to close as she memorized the width of his palm and the length of his fingers. He had rugged, beautiful hands. Artistic hands, gifted with precision and sensitivity. She could already imagine them on her breasts, thrilling her, claiming her in the same possessive way he was palming her bottom.

  “Look at me, Randy.”

  She resisted until his fingers spoke to her, overriding her will in a way that his sensual voice couldn’t. She looked up at him, her heart crowding her throat. He was the kind of man who could make a woman do anything, she realized. He could master a woman’s flesh with his hands and still the last quiver of defiance in her soul. She should have been trying to find a way to release herself from his power. Instead, she was glorying in the weakness she felt.