Diana Palmer Collected 1-6: Soldier of Fortune / Tender Stranger / Enamored / Mystery Man / Rawhide and Lace / Unlikely Lover. Diana Palmer
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amorous men.”
“We can take them off, I suppose,” he mused.
Her breath caught as she read the veiled promise in his dark eyes.
“Stark terror,” he taunted gently, watching her expression. “I didn’t realize I was so frightening.”
“Not that kind of frightening,” she corrected him. Her eyes lowered.
“Dani.”
He made her name sound like a prayer. She looked up.
“Seducing you is not on the agenda,” he said quietly. “But if something did happen, I’d marry you. That’s a promise, and I don’t give my word lightly.”
She began to tingle all over. “It would be a high price to pay for one mistake.”
He was watching her oddly. “Would it? I haven’t thought about marriage in years.” He leaned back in his chair to study her, the cigarette burning idly in his fingers. “I wonder what it would be like,” he mused, “having someone to come back to.”
What an odd way to put it, she thought. Surely he meant someone to come home to. She pulled herself up short as she realized that it was just conversation. He was only amusing himself; she had to remember that. Making memories, as he’d put it. They were strangers and they’d remain strangers. She couldn’t afford to mess up her whole life because of a holiday romance. That was all this was. A little light entertainment. She’d better remember that, too.
The waiter brought their food, and as they ate they talked about general things. He seemed very knowledgeable about foreign conflicts, and she imagined that he read a lot of military publications. That led to talk of the kind of weapons being used, and he seemed equally knowledgeable about those.
“My best friend’s husband likes to read about weapons,” Dani volunteered, remembering Harriett’s Dave and his fascination with weaponry. “He has volumes on those exotic things like…oh, what is it, the little nine-millimeter carbine—”
“The Uzi,” he offered. “It has a thirty-shot magazine and can throw off single shots as well as bursts. A formidable little carbine.”
She laughed. “I can shoot a twenty-two rifle. That’s about the extent of my knowledge of weapons.”
“I know more about knives than guns, as a rule, although I’ve used both.” He reached into his inside blazer pocket, produced a large folded knife and put it on the table.
She stared at it, fascinated. It was made of silvery metal, with a carved bone handle, and when she tugged the blade out, it was oddly shaped and had a sinister look.
“It’s not a pocket knife, is it?” she asked, lifting her eyes.
He shook his head. “Although it passes for one, going through customs.”
“Where did you find something so unusual?” she asked, fascinated by it.
“I made it.” He picked it up and repocketed it.
“Made it?” she exclaimed.
“Sure.” He laughed at her expression. “Where do you think knives come from? Someone has to make them.”
“Yes, of course, but I didn’t recognize…It’s very formidable looking,” she added.
“I don’t carry it for decoration,” he said. He leaned forward and sipped his coffee. “Would you like some dessert?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I don’t like sweet things very much, thank God.”
He smiled. “Neither do I. Let’s go walk on the beach for a while.”
“Lovely!”
She waited while he paid the check and then followed him out into the darkness.
The night was warm, and she took off her sandals, which she’d worn without hose, and danced in and out of the waves. He watched her, laughing, his hands in his pockets, his blond hair pale and glowing in the light from the hotel.
“How old did you say you were?” he asked when she came running back up the beach, sandals dangling from one hand.
“About ten,” she laughed up at him.
“You make me feel old.” He lifted a hand and touched her cheek, her lips. There were people farther down the beach, but none close enough to be more than dark shapes.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Thirty-six,” he said. His other hand came out of his pocket. He took her sandals from her nerveless fingers and dropped them down into the sand. The soft thud barely registered above the crashing surf.
“You excite me,” he said in a deep, slow tone. He cupped her face in his hands and drew her closer, so that she could feel the pleasant heat of his body against hers. “Do you know how a man’s body reacts when he’s excited?”
Her face felt blistering hot, and she couldn’t seem to move as he released her face only to take her hips in his hands and draw them against him.
Her breath caught and his open mouth touched her forehead. His breathing was audible now, and she was learning fascinating things about him, about the subtle differences in his body that she was apparently causing.
“No protest at all?” he asked quietly.
“I’m…curious,” she whispered. “As you’ve already seen, I know very little about this.”
“I don’t frighten you?”
“No, not now.”
His mouth smiled, she could feel it. His thumbs bit into the soft flesh of her stomach as he urged her closer. “Not even now?” he whispered.
Her legs trembled against his. She felt strange new sensations inside her, dragging sensations that left tingling pleasure in their wake. Her hands clung to his blazer because she wasn’t sure her legs were going to support her much longer.
His chest rose and fell roughly against her taut breasts. “I want to be alone with you. And at the moment that’s the most dangerous thing we could do.”
“You want me,” she whispered, realizing it with a strange sense of triumph.
“Yes.” His hands moved up her body slowly to her breasts, which were bare under the dress because she hadn’t wanted to suffer her hot, longline bra, which was the only strapless thing she had.
She tensed, feeling his hands lift her, cup her, so tender that she accepted them without protest. His thumbs brushed over her, feeling her instant response.
“You want me, too, don’t you?” he asked gently.
The sensations his thumbs were producing made her mind go blank. She moved a little, moaning.
His face pressed against her cheek. She could feel his breath at her ear.
“Thank God we don’t have an audience,” he whispered huskily. “Stand very still, Dani.”
His hands rose, moved to her shoulders. He eased the fabric down her arms with a slow, sinuous, achingly tender pressure. Her heart stopped beating as she felt the blood rush through her veins, felt the coolness of the salty night breeze touching her shoulders, her upper arms, and then her breasts as he slid the fabric to her waist.
She moaned again, a catching of breath that acted on him like a narcotic. He felt his own legs go weak at the wholehearted response she was giving him. Giving to him, when he knew instinctively that she’d never have let any other man do this to her.
“I wish that I could see your eyes,” he whispered. He lifted his head and looked down at her shadowed face. His hands slid against her face, her throat. “You’re so silky-soft,” he said under his breath. His hands slid down her arms and back up, his fingers barely touching, experiencing