Chasing Summer. Abigail Gordon
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at him. I’m terrified. I don’t want to be locked away here in this small space in the dark with you for what might be hours. Oh, God, I was almost there...in my own place...safe and sound...
‘You don’t sound as though you’re all right,’ he said, his tone concerned. ‘You’re not claustrophobic, are you?’
Only when I’m with you! ‘I don’t know,’ she choked out. ‘I don’t think so, but this has never happened to me before.’
‘Mmm...I guess there’s been some sort of electrical failure. Do you remember which side of the doors that emergency telephone was on?’
Was he mad? Good lord, she didn’t remember a damned thing about getting into this steel coffin with him except how long and elegant his fingers were when he pressed the buttons! ‘Er—no,’ she admitted huskily.
‘I think it was the left.’
A vivid expletive broke the stifled atmosphere as Mike tripped over the suitcase. Salome huddled into a far corner so that he wouldn’t trip over her. That, she could do without!
‘Here it is,’ he growled. Some more rummaging sounds and a metallic click. ‘There’s a dial tone. Hello? Hello? Anyone there?’
Another silence, punctuated by Mike’s heavy breathing. Or was it her own?
‘Anyone there, dammit?’ he continued irritably.
More silence.
He kept trying for some time, but no saviour answered. Finally, he put the receiver back with a weary sigh. ‘I’ll try again later. Don’t worry, Salome, someone must know what’s happened. We’ll get out of here eventually.’
She didn’t realise he couldn’t see her shaking her head.
‘Salome?’ A hand brushed over her nose.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ she said hurriedly, and moved sideways out of the corner and away from his searching hand. He wasn’t touching her now, but he was standing right in front of her. She could hear his breathing, smell his musky aftershave.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he soothed.
‘I’m not.’
‘You sound it.’
She sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled. ‘I’m all right. Really.’
‘Do you want to sit down? We could use your suitcase as a type of seat.’ Common sense told her this was a practical suggestion, but she hesitated to give him permission to be pressed up against her. ‘Come on,’ he insisted.
She heard the sounds of his dragging the case up against the wall near by. Two firm male hands found her arms, pulled her over, and sat her down. ‘Move along a bit,’ he suggested as he tried unsuccessfully to fit beside her.
It was not the most comfortable of seats, with one of the side-locks sticking into her left buttock and the handle jammed against her hip.
‘I think we should lie the case down flat,’ Mike said after a minute.
They did so, and this was indeed more comfortable to sit on, but somehow more intimate, with their bodies being closer to the floor and their legs stretched out in front of them. Salome was clutching her handbag in her lap as though it would protect her against hidden invaders.
‘Well,’ Mike sighed after another awkward silence. ‘What shall we talk about?’
‘Do we have to talk at all?’ she snapped.
She could feel the way his head shot round to stare at her through the blackness. ‘I think you must be frightened,’ he remarked drily, ‘or you wouldn’t be so snappy.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not exactly pleased, but I’m not frightened.’
‘If you say so.’
He said nothing after that, and in the end Salome could not take the sound of his quiet, even breathing any longer. ‘You’re not going to sleep, are you?’ she said accusingly.
‘Hardly.’ She didn’t miss the caustic tone in his voice.
Another couple of minutes ticked away in slow motion.
‘Tell me, Salome, what is that perfume you always wear?’
She was about to answer when the word ‘always’ registered, and brought an unexpected quiver of alarm. Any man who recognised a woman’s perfume as always being the same must have been taking rather special notice of her.
Not necessarily, logic dismissed. Mike was a connoisseur of women, and would notice such feminine trivia as instinctively as some men noticed makes of cars.
‘It must have a name,’ he persisted.
‘Orient Mist,’ she admitted curtly.
‘Mm. Evocative...but then, it’s an evocative perfume.’
Salome’s breath caught at the low, almost seductive tone in his voice. Against her will, an erotic shiver ran up and down her spine, reminding her of how vulnerable she would be to this man if he decided to take advantage of the situation they were in.
‘You’re cold,’ he observed when another shiver rippled through her. ‘Would you like my jacket around your shoulders?’
‘No, no,’ she hastily protested. ‘I’m fine. If I want anything extra I can always get something out of my suitcase.’
‘Ahh, yes...our seating... Still, it is getting cool in here, and we’d be warmer like this.’ He put an arm around her shoulder and drew her against him.
Horrified, she allowed it, for to pull away or cry out would have been more telling. But, oh...the feel of his body hard against hers was unbelievable! Tension gripped all her muscles, turning her into a mangled mess of misery and desire.
‘Relax,’ he murmured. She couldn’t relax. She just couldn’t. ‘What’s wrong, Salome?’ he whispered, pulling away as he would to stare down at her. Except that in the darkness she couldn’t see anything, her only physical sensation the feel of his warm breath close to her face.
‘Nothing...nothing...I—’
There was no stopping her gasp when his hands found and cupped her face. ‘You say nothing, but your voice is shaking and so is your body. If it’s not our hapless situation or the cold, then what is it? Surely you’re not afraid of me, are you?’ His words had a slow, steady delivery in the dark, like relentless drips of water.
‘No,’ she choked out.
‘Then why do you tremble so?’
This time she could find no words of protest, no denial for what he was about to conclude.
His ragged intake of breath still surprised her. ‘So!’ he exhaled, his fingers tightening their grip on her face. ‘You’re not as indifferent to me as you pretend. Or are you so frustrated tonight that you’d respond no matter who was touching you? Does the dark help? Can you block me out of your mind, pretend I’m one of those gigolo types you use whenever your frustration reaches unbearable proportions?’
‘Don’t,’ she groaned when his thumbtips started stroking her lips.
‘You don’t mean that,’ he rasped. ‘You want this, want it quite desperately, if I’m any judge. And, by God, I’m going to enjoy giving it to you!’
Thinking back, Salome realised that if she had given him a cold rebuff instead of her pathetic little ‘don’t’ he wouldn’t have gone ahead, and she wouldn’t have found out the disgusting truth about herself.
But she didn’t do that, and from the moment his mouth met hers she was lost, lost to sensations she had never experienced before, lost to needs that had only ever been lightly touched on, driven by a force so strong and intoxicating that she was powerless to resist it.