COUNTERPOINT
An original romantic serialFrom Alina Adams the author of "When a Man Loves a Woman" (DELL 4/00), "Annie's Wild Ride" (AVON 8/98), "Inside Figure Skating" (METROBOOKS 11/00 & 9/99), "Thieves at Heart" (AVON 12/95) and "The Fictitious Marquis" (AVON 6/95)
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CHAPTER 36
Victoria offered, "You look like hell."
It was a solicited opinion.
Robin had come into an Elizabeth Fund Board meeting unshaven, and wearing a dark blue sport-coat with black slacks -- a Fashion Don't even Victoria recognized, and one that, a few weeks ago, he would have never tolerated on a stranger, much less himself.
He'd plopped himself in a chair across the conference-table from Victoria, with three other board members buffering them on either side, and propped his forehead up with his hand, wincing when the light hit his eyes, and aimlessly scratching the notepad in front of him with a chewed fingernail.
She couldn't stop looking at him. The sight of Robin dressed badly, much less poorly groomed, broke her heart.
And it annoyed her.
Heck, she wasn't feeling too chipper these days, either. But, at least, she still made the effort to come into work looking like a professional. She still made the effort to keep up appearances.
But, then again, Victoria did have the advantage of knowing that, whatever misery she was going through, she'd brought it upon herself, and, at least, she'd gotten something positive -- she'd saved Gabriel -- in return.
Robin had the roof dropped on him with no warning, no reason, no explanation. And, unlike Victoria and her tormentor, the lovely Miss Simonge, the blow had come from someone Robin trusted.
She didn't blame him for reeling.
And every time she looked at him, she died a little.
Robin, though, did not like her looking at him, at all.
He waited until the other board members had filed out of the room and Victoria was the only one left, before deigning to glance up at her.
"What?" he snapped, flopping back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and sneeringly studying Victoria over the eraser of an upraised pencil.
"What's the matter, Miss Morgan? Something wrong with the way I look?"
That's when she offered the solicited, "You look like Hell."
"And you give a damn, because...."
"Because," Victoria said. "You taught me there was no valid excuse for fashion faux pas."
A second earlier, he'd looked half-poised to fling the pencil at her. Robin was wagging it back and forth, one eye squinted, as if measuring the perfect distance for burrowing the sharpened point somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. But, then, rather than following through, he opened his errant eye, straightened an inch in his chair, and slowly lowered the pencil to, once again, lie neatly parallel to the notepad with Cooper Shipping emblazoned along its top. His voice was almost human when he asked, curious and suspicious and cautiously hopeful, "You listened to me?"
"Sure. When you know what you're talking about, why not?"
"Thanks for the qualifier."
"I didn't want you getting a swelled head."
Robin propped his forehead against the heels of both palms, dug his nails into his scalp, and squeezed hard, closing his eyes and mumbling, "Too late."
"Hangover?"
"No, thanks, already -- "
"Got one," Victoria finished for him. "Oh, Robin, now I AM disappointed in you. That line was old when Adam first got drunk on apple wine." She sighed, "Considering how familiar this state is for you, I presumed you'd always carry a handy-dandy cure."
"That would require planning ahead."
"Forgive me, I forgot who I was talking to for a moment."
He grunted. Under the circumstances, Victoria guessed it was the pinnacle of his creative banter.
"Here." She crossed the room to stand behind Robin's chair. "Let me try."
The words were out of her mouth before Victoria's brain fully realized what she was offering. She'd already raised her arms to his shoulders. They froze in midair. Victoria's fingers curled into fists. Instinctively, she forced them open, stretching all ten until she feared popping a muscle or tearing her skin. Because she wasn't a coward. No matter what, Victoria had never been a coward.
And she did want to touch him, again.
Just for a moment.
Even if it was under the guise of something else, she did want to touch him, again.
Tentatively, in stops and in starts and in twitches and jerks, Victoria lowered her hands onto Robin's shoulders. He stiffened, as surprised to feel her there, as she was to have done it. She feared that he might shrug -- or, worse -- toss her off him. She wished that he would. That way, there would be no more temptation. She wouldn't have to worry about restraining herself.
She wouldn't have to worry about being the one to stop.
But, Robin did not shrug her off. He stayed right as he was, shoulders tight, back as taut as a cat's, heart beating so hard, Victoria could feel the vibrations along his skin in the way his blood bubbled beneath her fingers. But, he did not shrug her off.
He simply sat there, waiting for her to make the next move.
And so, Victoria did.
Her hands slid up both shoulders, pausing at the base of his neck, thumbs touching, two fourth fingers just rubbing the triangle where his hair ended.
He still did not shrug her off.
She had to keep going. She had no choice.
Victoria pressed her thumb against the tip of Robin's spine, finding a knot of muscles so tight, she could barely differentiate them from bone. She rubbed it, soothingly, instinctively, her brain not on the activity at hand, but, rather, on the potential consequences of the activity at hand. His skin was warm, and -- she had to be imagining it, she understood as much, but, still, she felt it just the same -- it suckled her own flesh, pulling Victoria closer as surely as a patient fisherman tugging on his lure. A low-grade hum vibrated along her palm, snaking up Victoria's arm, and, God help her, spreading to fill her body, pulling her, willing her, taunting her.
She tried to avert her gaze, but, looking down at the bare inch of neck peeking out above Robin's shirt and below his hair hardly helped her stop the quivering.
It took all of Victoria's self-control to keep herself from giving in to the overwhelming, hypnotic urge to dip her head and brush her mouth against the exact patch of skin where her thumb had so recently left a slight, red mark. Like a lip-print.
But, Victoria knew she had to fight it.
Robin, however, knew no such thing.
Without turning around, he raised his own arm, and, without warning, wrapped the fingers of his right hand around Victoria's wrist.
She froze, terrified and exhilarated and utterly lost.
Lost to him.
Lost in him.
Tugging ever so slightly, Robin maneuvered Victoria's arm until her palm was directly in front of his face. He kissed Victoria's middle finger. Lightly for now. Barely a touch.
And yet, she felt the kiss all the way down to the arch of her foot, which curved tensely in response.
As a matter of fact, her whole body tensed, forcing Victoria to pull back, just a little, from Robin's grasp. She caught her breath, wondering if he would interpret her involuntary withdrawal as a rejection. She wondered if she wanted him to interpret it that way. She wondered how he would react to it. She wondered how she wanted him to react to it.
She stopped wondering when, acting as if hadn't noticed her shudder, Robin slowly, deliberately, licked the tip of Victoria's finger. Then, giving her no time to catch her breath or even process the act, he proceeded to trace a moist, carnal, unapologetic line downward, past each joint, along her palm, settling at the inside of Victoria's wrist. He kissed the sensitive skin, there, circling his tongue around her pulse three times.
Only then, did he turn around to face her.
Victoria didn't move.
Robin didn't move.
Their eyes locked.
His grip on her wrist tightened.
As if Robin intended to pull Victoria into his lap, and take her then and there and forever.
She didn't say anything.