Surrender, Baby Part 6

Instead he went to the desk, set down the empty tumbler, and pulled a piece of hotel stationery from the drawer. Time to exorcise some demons, he told himself.

Randy woke to the moist languor of mid-morning, the slow whir of ceiling fans and the soft screech of a jungle bird. As the sounds penetrated her consciousness, she remembered where she was: Rio de Janeiro ... the River of January, with its exotic rain forests, miles of white crescent beaches, and steamy tropical nights.

Images of Rio were filtering through her awareness like a travel brochure as she opened her eyes and realized she was exactly where she'd fallen asleep, curled up around the pillow, still wearing her teddy. She'd never put on a nightgown or turned down the bed covers.

Sheened in perspiration, slowed by the weight of the moist heat that enveloped her, she untangled herself from the pillow and pushed up to a sitting position. Someone had opened the French doors to the balcony off her bedroom, she realized. She glanced in confusion at the door to her room, which was still locked. A hotel maid? How did she get in?

A brilliant orange and turquoise macaw was perched on the balcony's white wrought-iron railings, gazing at her with unblinking eyes. As she stared back at the magnificent bird, uncertain that it was real, a garland of yellow b.u.t.terflies flitted by. The travel brochures were right, she thought. This was paradise. Pots of exotic orchids dotted the balcony, and the breezes that wafted into the room were so heavy with their perfume, they seemed tinted a blush pink like the flowers.

She rolled her neck slowly, feeling logy and stiff, as if she'd been doing something she shouldn't have the night before. It must have been the macaw's cry that woke her up, but otherwise she seemed to be alone. As she slid around to get off the bed, she noticed something lying on the bed's other pillow ... a pen and ink sketch.

She was almost afraid to pick it up. From her vantage point it looked suspiciously like a drawing of a man and a woman in some kind of erotic ecstasy, and she knew who the artist must be. Her heart began to pound as she angled nearer, trying to see what it was without actually touching it, as if she could somehow make the images less disturbing that way. Finally she gave in to her feverish curiosity and picked the paper up.

Her mouth went dry as she stared at the drawing. He'd captured the raw, forbidden intimacy of their night together with a few graceful, slashing strokes of his pen. She was fully clothed in the picture, but the sweetheart sleeves of her wedding dress had dropped off her shoulders, baring one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s for all the world to see. Worse, she was sitting on Geoff's lap, facing him, straddling him, just as she had on the bike. Her head was thrown back, her spine arched in swooning ecstasy as he slid his hand up her skirt.

It wasn't clear whether they were intimately joined, but it was crystal clear that she was a consenting adult to whatever they were doing. More than consenting, she looked like a woman in the throes of rapture-eager, wanton, drugged with pa.s.sion. And he looked like a man totally confident of his s.e.xual power over her.

The sketch brought back vivid memories, and such sharp sensations of physical pleasure that Randy could hardly catch her breath. She hated admitting even to herself that he'd brought her to such a fever pitch of desire. And it humiliated her to remember how shamelessly she'd behaved with him.

How dare he draw what they'd done? He was invading her privacy, exposing her. She knew she was being foolish. It made no sense allowing herself to feel hurt or betrayed by a man who probably practiced seduction with the same dedication that a preacher practiced religion. But she did feel hurt. She couldn't help herself.

She told herself to throw the picture away, but for some reason she couldn't do it. Her wrist locked and her fingers began to shake as she gathered the paper together to crush it. Instead, she slammed the stationery face down and covered it with the pillow, as if she could make it disappear or smother the writhing carnal energy out of it.

She left the bed and walked to the French doors, aware of the sunshine pouring over her like honey from a pitcher as she stepped out onto the balcony. She should have felt warm, but she didn't. There were too many conflicting emotions tangled up inside her. She had no idea how to deal with the problem of Geoff Dias, but she had to find a way. This couldn't go on any longer. She had to confront him. Harder still, she had to confront her feelings for him.

Once she'd showered and dressed, she found him on the penthouse terrace having breakfast. He'd changed from fatigue pants to faded khaki shorts and a ribbed cotton tank top, and his legs were long and tanned and dusted with golden hair. The table he sat at was facing the horizon, a stunning, seamless backdrop of dense blue sky and equally blue water.

He was staring out to sea, and Randy was hesitant to disturb his meditation. He looked absorbed in his thoughts, almost peaceful. Sunlight filtered through the palmeira that shaded him, catching errant tendrils of his hair as the breezes lifted them. It gilded the long strands like spun gold, making him seem almost ethereal, a G.o.d at rest, the artist in a moment of contemplation.

The table next to him was set with a sterling silver coffee service and a platter of crusty rolls and sticky, pecan-studded buns. Another large platter held rainbow tiers of the fruits of the country, including wedges of melon, mango, deep-red papaya, and a heap of luscious Brazilian figs.

The air was balmy warm and the scene so bucolic. Randy felt almost mollified, as if Mother Nature herself was cautioning her, "Don't worry, be happy." No wonder people loved the tropics, she thought. The weather lulled you into abandoning your concerns-along with your inhibitions. However, as much as she wanted to sit down, eat a mango, and relax, she had to talk with him. She had to lay down the law.

He glanced up at her as she approached, a sidelong look that said he'd been expecting her. His green eyes shimmered with antic.i.p.ation.

She held the picture up for him to see, but kept it just out of his reach, as if too close a look might t.i.tillate him. She didn't want to remind him of what he'd drawn-or what they'd done. "I consider this a gross violation of my privacy," she said with no preamble whatsoever.

"Sit down," he invited, motioning to the wrought-iron chair across from him. "Have some coffee. It's Brazilian, strong enough to pour itself."

She remained standing, unyielding. "How did you get in my room?"

In no particular hurry, he took a drink of his cafezinho, a tiny cup of sweetened black coffee, then tore off a yeasty section of sweet roll and ate it. "Locked doors are my business," he said finally.

"Then tonight I'll barricade it."

"Don't waste your time. Randy. You could lock yourself in a bank vault, and it wouldn't stop me, not if I wanted to get in."

"Really?" Her voice was inching toward shrillness. "I never knew you were so talented. An artist, a safecracker-what else?"

His quick smile held a s.e.xy warning. You haven't seen anything yet, it said. He checked out her outfit, hesitating on the halter top of her sundress as if he were waiting for her to swoon, arch her back, and pop out a breast so he could draw another picture.

Impulsively, Randy held out the sketch, crushed it in her fist, and dropped the wad of paper on the table.

His smile faded, which pleased her immensely.

"We have to talk." She pulled a chair out from the table and seated herself, her heart creating a terrible uproar. Her rigid stance warned him not to push her any further. But what would she do if he did? Every confrontation with him was freighted with risk. She could spar with him verbally, but she was no match for him in any other way.

He simply settled back, folded his arms, and gazed at her. "By all means. Talk. Amaze me some more."

She felt a stab of pain near her ear and realized she must be clenching her jaw. She was sure to have a headache before this was over with. "If you'll remember, I made up a list of house rules-"

"I do remember. They specified no physical contact, but they didn't say anything about drawing pictures."

"Would it have made any difference if they had?"

"Probably not."

"Geoff, this has got to stop-"

"I like that," he said softly. "I like it when you say my name. I don't think I've ever heard you say it before."

He sounded grainy voiced and slightly surprised. The curiosity in his expression made him seem sincere. Randy felt a softening inside, a loosening of tight muscles and tighter inhibitions. She fought to control the reaction, aware that it was easier dealing with him when he was being perverse. When he was civil, or G.o.d forbid, nice, she didn't know how to defend herself.

"You may not hear me say it again," she told him, determined to be tough. "If you don't agree to my rules, it's over. The deal's off. I'll find Hugh without you."

"Never going to happen," he warned.

"You won't agree to the rules?"

"No-you'll never find Hugh."

"And you'll never get what you want."

"Which is?"

She hesitated, nearly light-headed from the way her pulse was racing. "A night. One night ... with me."

The slow lift of his chin betrayed his surprise. "A repeat performance?" he said. "You and me?"

"Yes." She'd played the wild card, her only bargaining chip with him. She hated having to resort to such a desperate tactic, feeling as if she were going against everything she believed in about honesty, and personal ethics-but she had no other options left. If Geoff thought they were going to make love at a later point, perhaps he would leave her alone for now, and they could both concentrate on finding Hugh. She was counting on that being the case, and she needed the time it would buy her. When they found Hugh ... well, she would deal with that problem when the time came.

He tapped the porcelain coffee cup with his forefinger. "Since you put it that way," he said, glancing up at her through lowered lashes.

"You agree, then?"

He shrugged, a gesture of surrender. "Do with me what you will. I'm yours to command."

"Good. As long as you understand that I'm calling the shots, then let's get started."

"Doing what?"

"Looking for Hugh, of course. I want to begin our investigation."

"Our investigation?"

"Yes, I want to be involved. I think we should start with the American consulate, then the local police."

He was shaking his head slowly. "I'd suggest we avoid the red tape of the official investigation and go straight to the source. I speak enough Portuguese and French to be understood by the locals. With some luck, we can trace Hugh's steps directly, starting with the hotel he was staying at."

"All right," she said hesitantly. She was more than prepared to make concessions if it meant speeding things up. It only made sense to let him handle the investigation. He was the expert at finding people, but at least now she had veto power.

Relaxing a little, she poured herself a cup of the rich black coffee and took one of the crusty rolls, aware that he was watching her with undisguised interest. He was probably wondering what kind of woman would do the things she'd done-get involved with a stranger on the road and then, ten years later, strike a s.e.xual bargain with that same stranger. Most men would have concluded that she was either desperate or a woman of easy virtue. She imagined Geoff Dias thought she was both ... and she was beginning to wonder if he was right.

She poured enough milk in the coffee to make it drinkable, then sipped it slowly, aware that it was too potent a brew to simply relax and enjoy, and yet at the same time, that it was undoubtedly habit-forming ... not unlike him.

Finally she set the cup down and turned to him, ready to unburden herself. She was surprised to see that he had smoothed out the drawing she'd crumpled. He was studying it with an expression that she couldn't immediately put a name to. Reflective, perhaps. Moody. Yes, he looked rather distracted.

"You have to understand that Hugh is the man I love," she told him. "I'm engaged to marry him, and I'd make any sacrifice to get him back, even ... "

"Sleeping with me?" he finished as she hesitated.

"Even that."

"The ultimate torture?"

When she didn't answer, he rose from the chair and walked to the wrought-iron railing that bordered the terrace. Turning his back to the bright blue sky, he leaned against the railing and stared at her. Haloed by sunlight, his face and body carved by shadows, he was breathtaking. The green of his eyes was brilliant, as though lit by an emotion even the shade couldn't subdue.

Arrested by the juxtaposition of man and nature, by the simplicity of his casual pose, Randy admitted to herself that she was far more attracted to him than she ever had been to Hugh. Irresistibly physically attracted.

And yet she knew physical attraction to a man wasn't enough. It could ruin a woman. It had ruined her mother's life. A man had to have character. He had to be stable and dependable. But try as she would to convince herself that she shouldn't be affected by Geoff Dias, the shakiness in her stomach wouldn't go away. She felt as loose and fluttery as the b.u.t.terflies wafting overhead. It seemed she was like her mother, doomed to be drawn to the wrong kind of man.

"I want to be with Hugh," she said, uttering the words softly, urgently.

"You may want to be with him, but you don't love him. If I believed you did, I wouldn't be here."

His voice was husky again, compellingly sincere. It made her feel strange and vulnerable when he talked that way. It made her throat ache. "Why are you doing this to me?" she asked. "What do you want?"

"Why did you do it to me? What was the point of seducing me and running off?"

Randy thought she saw a flaring of pain in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly, she couldn't be sure. She would never be sure with him. she realized. That was the problem. "I don't know why I did it. I was hurting and terribly angry. Everybody thought I was a wild kid anyway, probably because of Edna. Since I already had the reputation, I thought I might as well live up to it."

"So I was an experiment, an opportunity to find out just how wild you could be with a renegade biker?"

"Yes, maybe-I don't know. I wasn't thinking in those terms. I wasn't thinking at all, I guess."

"Nothing's changed, has it?" he said, almost bitterly. "Did it ever occur to you that I was anything more than an extension of that motorcycle, Randy? That I might have some feelings about what happened between us?"

She searched his face, looking for any evidence of the feelings he mentioned. He was good at hiding them. He was one of the coolest characters she'd ever come across, almost as if he were determined to control every vulnerable response, down to the tiniest spasm of nerves. And yet there was a darkness glowing in his features, a brightness glittering in the depths of his eyes that couldn't be controlled. They fascinated her, those glimpses of his inner world. She wanted to know what Geoff Dias was protecting, what he was feeling.

"I wasn't trying to hurt anyone," she told him. "But apparently I did, both of us. I'm sorry."

She hesitated, waiting for a response. When he didn't react, she probed a little further. "You seem so determined to prove that Hugh is wrong for me," she said. "Why do you care? Did what happen between us shake you up that badly?"

He flared without warning, striding toward her, pulling her out of the chair. "I'll tell you when I'm hurting, sweetness. You'll be the first to know." His voice was low, almost harsh as he noticed the hand he was gripping, the bright coral polish she'd painted on her nails.

"What's the occasion?" he asked. "Is this for me?"

Randy was too shaken to remind him of the house rules. "Not for you," she said angrily, "because of you. I needed a distraction, but don't flatter yourself that it means anything."

His hand tightened on her wrist as he glared at her, caught somewhere between male rage and the need to control it. Seconds ticked by, each one a tiny bomb exploding in Randy's head. She was no match for him. She couldn't possibly stop him if he decided to get physical, if he decided to- "Let's get going," he said abruptly. "The sooner we find your beloved fiance, the sooner you pay up."

His fingers were biting into her flesh, but there was something in his voice, a tone, a drumbeat, that told Randy he was more than angry. He was dangerously jealous.

Seven.

"A MOTORCYCLE?" RANDY HESITATED, casting a suspicious glance at the gleaming black low-rider conspicuously parked in the crescent-shaped driveway that fronted their hotel. "Where did that come from?" Now she understood why Geoff hadn't called a taxi as she'd suggested. She'd thought he was still angry.

Geoff brushed past her and walked to the sleek machine. "Must be black magic," he said sardonically. "We need transportation and a bike materializes." He settled himself on the leather seat like a cowboy sliding into a new saddle he was looking forward to breaking in. "Actually, I had the hotel concierge rent it for me," he said by way of explanation as he gripped the handlebars and generally got the feel of the bike.

"Don't they rent cars in this country?" Randy asked.

Geoff glanced up and caught her off guard. His eyes were as cold and green as a slick ocean surface. Randy could feel the chill. She sensed the undercurrents. He was still angry.

"You coming?" It was more a command than a question.

With bells on, she thought, but didn't say it.

Moments later they were rolling down Avenida Atlantica, the famous ocean boulevard that paralleled Copacabana Beach. The heavy traffic forced them to go slowly, allowing Randy to relax a little and soak up the ambience. Everywhere she looked, strolling troubadours were playing mandolins and young boys were beating feverishly on bongo drums.

The rich smells of b.u.t.tered popcorn and caramel wafted from pushcarts as beach vendors energetically hawked their wares. A wizened older man labored to carry a huge red umbrella studded with woven straw sunhats for sale, while a young girl held up a rainbowlike array of cotton candy, that looked like mountains of clouds.

Randy found herself so distracted by the colorful commotion, she almost forgot she was hostage to a bad-tempered mercenary and his rumbling, grumbling motorcycle. Dizzying mosaic patterns decorated the sidewalks that fronted the beach, and the expanse of white sand beyond was swarming with sunbathers of all sizes, ages, and colors. If Cariocas worshiped the sun, they also worshiped the human body, Randy realized. The common goal seemed to be to expose as much skin as possible to the elements.

Fascinated by the spectacle, she watched near-naked children frolic in the surf and small groups of topless women stroll unselfconsciously over the sand, their b.r.e.a.s.t.s bobbing as they walked, their lithe bodies glistening in the sun. Every now and then she caught a whiff of rich suntan lotion mingled with the pungency of moist, hot female flesh.

Geoff was undoubtedly distracted too, she imagined.

The traffic slowed in front of them, and as Geoff geared down. Randy became reacquainted with the powerful vibrations of the machine beneath her. They trembled through her clenched thighs and radiated up her body almost pleasurably. Normally she would have felt compelled to cut off the sensations, but today she found herself contemplating her responses, tuning in to them as she wondered what it would be like to experience such feelings willingly, and without fear.

She was also aware of the potent tropical sunshine pouring its heat over the city, and of the throbbing native drums that saturated the air with their fervent sensuality. Closing her eyes for a moment, she allowed the drumbeats to fill her senses and the motorcycle's deep vibrations to course through her body. As the energy zinged out to her fingertips and down to her toes, she found herself smiling, beginning to understand the thrill of a big bike. It had to be terribly exhilarating having all that horsepower at your command.