When they took their seats in the theater, Gray draped his arm over the back of her chair, turned so that his mouth was at her ear. "Impressed?"
"Desperately. I feel I've walked into a movie instead of coming to see one."
"That's because events like this have nothing to do with reality. Wait until the party after."
Brianna let out a careful breath. She'd come a long way from Clare, she thought. A long, long way.
She didn't have much time to chew over it. The lights dimmed, the screen lit. In only moments she felt the sharp, silvery thrill of seeing Gray's name flash, hold, then fade.
"That's wonderful," she whispered. "That's a wonderful thing."
"Let's see if the rest is as good." She thought it was. The action swept by, that edge-of-the-seat pace that had her immersed. It didn't seem to matter that she'd read the book, already knew the twists of plot, recognized whole blocks of Gray's words in the dialogue. Her stomach still clenched, her lips still curved, her eyes still widened. Once Gray pressed a handkerchief into her hands so she could dry her cheeks.
"You're the perfect audience, Brie. I don't know how I've watched a movie without you."
"Ssh." She sighed, took his hand, and held it through the breathless climax and through the closing credits while applause echoed from the walls. "I'd say we've got a hit."
"They won't believe me," Brianna said as they stepped out of the elevator in the Plaza hours later. "I wouldn't believe me. I danced with Tom Cruise." Giggling, a little lightheaded on wine and excitement, she turned a quick pirouette. "Do you believe it?"
"I have to." Gray unlocked the door. "I saw it. He seemed very taken with you."
"Oh, he just wanted to talk about Ireland. He has a fondness for it. He's charming, and madly in love with his wife. And to think they might actually come and stay at my house."
"It wouldn't surprise me to find the place lousy with celebrities after tonight." Yawning, Gray toed off his shoes. "You enchanted everyone you spoke with."
"You Yanks always fall for an Irish voice." She unclasped her necklace, running the strands through her hands before she laid them in their box. "I'm so proud of you, Gray. Everyone was saying how wonderful the movie was, and all that talk about Oscars." She beamed at him as she slipped off her earrings. "Imagine, you winning an Oscar."
>
"I wouldn't." He took off his jacket, tossed it carelessly aside. "I didn't write the movie."
"But..." She made a sound of disgust, stepping out of her shoes, lowering the zipper of her dress. "That's just not right. You should have one."
He grinned, and taking off his shirt glanced over his shoulder at her. But the quip dried like dust on the tip of his tongue.
She stepped out of her dress and was standing there in the little strapless fancy he'd bought to go under it. Midnight blue. Silk. Lace.
Unprepared, he was hard as iron as she bent to unsnap a smoky stocking from its garters. Pretty hands with their neat, unpainted nails skimmed down over one long smooth thigh, over the knee, the calf, tidily rolling the stocking.
She was saying something, but he couldn't hear it over the buzzing in his head. Part of his brain was warning him to get a choke hold on the violent flare of desire. Another part was urging him to take, as he'd wanted to take. Hard and fast and mindlessly.
Her stockings neatly folded, she reached up to unpin her hair. His hands fisted at his sides as those fired-gold tresses spilled down over bare shoulders. He could hear his own breathing, too quick, too harsh. And could almost, almost feel that silk rip in his hands, feel the flesh beneath go hot, taste that heat as his mouth closed greedily over her.
He forced himself to turn away. He needed only a moment, he assured himself, to reclaim control. It wouldn't be right to frighten her.
"And it'll be such fun to tell everyone." Brianha set down her brush and giving into the new laugh, turned another pirouette. "I can't believe it's the middle of the night and I'm so wide awake. Just like a little child who's had too many sweets. I don't feel as though I'll ever need to sleep again." She spun toward him, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing against his back. "Oh, I've had such a wonderful time, Gray. I don't know how to thank you for it." "You don't have to." His voice was rough, every cell in his body on full alert.
"Oh, but you're used to this sort of thing." Innocently she planted a quick line of friendly kisses from shoulder to shoulder. He ground his teeth to hold back a moan. "I don't suppose you can really imagine what a thrill all this has been for me. But you're all knotted up." Instinctively she began to rub his back and shoulders. "You must be tired, and here I am, chattering like a magpie. Lie down, won't you? And I'll work these kinks out for you."
"Stop." The order sliced out. He whirled quickly, gripping her wrists so that she could only stand and stare. He looked furious. No, she realized. He looked dangerous.
"Grayson, what is it?"
"Don't you know what you're doing to me?" When she shook her head, he jerked her against him, his fingers biting into flesh. He could see the puzzlement in her eyes give way to dawning awareness, and to panic. And he snapped.
"Goddamn it." His mouth crushed down on hers, hungry, desperate. If she'd pushed him away, he might have pulled himself back. Instead she lifted a trembling hand to his cheek, and he was lost.
"Just once," he muttered, dragging her to the bed. "Just once."
This wasn't the patient, tenderhearted lover she'd known. He was wild, on the edge of violence with hands that tugged and tore and possessed. Everything about him was hard, his mouth, his hands, his body. For an instant, as he used them all to batter her senses, she feared she might simply break apart, like glass.
Then the dark tide of his need swept her along, shocked, aroused, and terrified all at once.
She cried out, staggered, as those restless fingers shot her mercilessly to peak and over. Her vision hazed, but she could see him through it. In the lights they'd left blazing, his eyes were fierce.
She said his name again, sobbed it out as he pulled her up to her knees. They were torso to torso on the rumpled bed, his hands molding her, pushing her ruthlessly toward madness.
Helpless, she bowed back, shuddering when his teeth scraped down her throat, over her breast. There he suckled greedily, as if starved for her taste, while his impatient fingers drove her mercilessly higher.
He couldn't think. Each time he'd loved her he'd struggled to keep one corner of his mind cool enough to make his hands gentle, his pace easy. This time there was only heat, a kind of gleeful, glorious hell that seeped into mind as well as body and burned away the civilized. Now bombarded by his own lust, craving hers, control was beyond him.
He wanted her writhing, bucking, screaming.
And he had her.
Even the torn silk was too much of a barrier. Frantic now, he ripped it down the center, pushing her onto her back so that he could devour the newly exposed flesh. He could feel her hands drag through his hair, her nails score his shoulders as he worked his way down her, feasting.
Then her gasp, the jolt, the muffled scream when his tongue plunged into her.
She was dying. No one could live through this heat, through the pressure that