Love Letters Volume 4: Travel to Temptation Read online

  She had her hand curled around his length. “I should hope so.”

  She pushed him down on the bed, then pulled his shorts and boxers down to his thighs. His cock stood straight up. She loved the velvety skin, the way it slid along the rigid flesh. She perched on the corner of the bed and leaned down to take him into her mouth.

  Not something she’d done enough to consider herself expert at it, but from the noises Steve made, she wasn’t doing too badly. She pressed her lips tight, just below the head, and went to work with her tongue.

  “Oh, babe, Gemma, that’s so good. I don’t want to come, so—ah!” He went still when her tongue rubbed that spot on the underside while her hand squeezed the shaft. “Condom,” he gasped. “Where are the condoms?”

  Oh, hell. They were still in her bag. Gemma reluctantly let him pull free of her mouth. She rolled off the bed and got the rubbers.

  He took one from her. “I’ll do that. Get undressed, please, Gemma.” He made it sound so urgent. It heated her blood to hear him beg.

  Her gaze never left his as she flung her clothes in the direction of the chair. He watched her get naked the way a dog stares at a special treat. Such a rush, seeing his jaw go slack and eyes glaze over.

  On impulse, Gemma tipped her head back, letting her hair tickle her back. She cupped her breasts, thumbing the nipples just to make him crazy. She was reaching for her pussy when he growled at her to stop.

  “Get back here now, temptress,” he said. He’d stripped off his clothes and was leaning on his elbows.

  She approached the bed slowly. He sat up and held out a hand for her. She knelt on the bed next to his legs, but he grabbed her knee and made her straddle him.

  “Like this?” she asked, deliberately widening her knees. She could feel air on the wetness of her sex.

  He flicked at her clit. “Yes, just like that.” Then he positioned her hips so his cock was nudging at the opening.

  She reached for her nipples. She needed the sensation while he was teasing her down there. The combination was electrifying. She ached from the inside out.

  “Please,” she whimpered.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  I want you to stay longer than a week. She could never say that out loud, but even having the thought was startling. She could feel her eyes open wide in surprise.

  “What? What are you thinking, my naughty Delilah?”

  “I want your cock. Inside me,” she managed to say in a choked voice.

  He flipped them over so she was on her back, then hooked one of her legs over his arm. “You got it, babe.”

  Her eyes fluttered closed at the sensation of him filling her, driving her back against the pillows. The feel of him overwhelmed her, disarmed her, completed her. She arched her torso into his, wrapping her arms around his shoulders to get him to kiss her.

  His tongue in her mouth, his cock in her pussy, his weight on her…and then his hand on her breast. Perfect.

  Gemma closed her eyes and let the sensations ratchet up the tension in her body, turning off her thoughts. Her climax was building, growing, overtaking her, compressing everything until there was nothing but Steve and her in the whole world. Then everything exploded and she shook with the release. He came next, clutching at her with iron-strong fingers.

  The short night and three-hour drive caught up with Gemma, making it hard for her to keep her eyes open.

  *

  Steve was charmed by the bistro Gemma picked for dinner. He was getting used to the slightly offhand way Kiwis treated him. He’d been places in Europe where locals, when he said he was from New York, would ask if he knew a cousin who lived on West 58th Street. In New Zealand, the most he got was a friendly smile.

  Gemma’s prediction that the weather would change proved true, so they sunbathed and swam each of the next two days. They even pulled an elderly picnic blanket out onto the sand one night when the tourists had left and made love under the stars.

  Bliss, but time hadn’t stopped. Steve mentally crossed each day off his internal calendar. If he wanted to interview Bethany Jarvis-Robison, he’d really need two, maybe three days. Add the morning to get back to Auckland, and his stay was nearly over.

  At the same time, the sex was getting better. Stripped of the fancy dress and makeup, Gemma made more sense. A young woman with an eagerness to learn, which was just what the Naughty in New Zealand blog had promised. She never talked about a job, officemates or a boss. Presumably Bethany wasn’t poor, given that Sins for Breakfast was still in print, was on every Twentieth Century Literature curriculum, and had been adapted into an Oscar-winning film. Maybe Gemma helped her grandmother with correspondence about the more recent writing.

  And if he didn’t get a professional vibe from her, who cared. Steve’s biggest impression was that Gemma was fun. Fun to be with, fun to talk to, fun to fuck. He’d ruin their carefree mood by forcing the issue, but with his flight home in five days, Steve had no choice. If he was even going to meet Bethany, he had to come clean with Gemma.

  At dinner that night, an al fresco meal on the cabin’s porch, he slipped in a comment about Gemma’s grandmother.

  “What?” Her face registered shifting emotions—shock, suspicion, alarm, distrust.

  Steve tried to ignore her agitation. “Your grandmother, Bethany?” he asked in as normal a voice as he could manage.

  She put her hands flat on the table. “I never told you about my grandmother.”

  “Sure you did.” The lie was out of his mouth before he could stop it. He looked straight at her, horrified that he could do this to her, be this low.

  “Sure I didn’t. I don’t talk about my family.”

  He couldn’t stop himself. “C’mon. You talked about Robbie and his parents, plus your other cousins, Jack and Louis.”

  “That’s different. That was my childhood.” She looked confused now, not sure where this was going.

  “But your grandmother is Bethany Jarvis-Robison, right?”

  Her face paled as she stared at him, her mouth open. Finally, she found some words. “Oh, God, you’re a journalist, aren’t you?”

  Steve nodded. Relief to have it out in the open.

  “You just came for the story.” She looked disgusted. “‘Whatever Happened to Bethany?’” she said, using air quotes to signify a title. She waited, her eyes daring him to deny it.

  He just nodded again.

  Gemma shook her head. “No. No story here. Go back to the States. Sorry I can’t help you.” She rose from the table and started to clatter the plates together, clearing everything into the kitchen.

  “Here, I’ll dry.” Steve reached for the dishtowel. Their nightly ritual—she washed and he dried.

  She snatched the cloth away. “What you’ll do is pack. I’ll drop you at the bus station in New Plymouth. I doubt you can get a bus to Auckland tonight, but I’m sure you can figure something out. You’re clearly a resourceful guy.”

  His stomach twisted. “Gemma, please, talk to me. I’ll go away if that’s what you really want, but please understand. Story or no story, I had to tell you.”

  She squirted too much soap—washing-up liquid, she called it—into the sink. With her agitation, the resulting froth threatened to spill over onto the floor.

  He tried again. “You were going to put it together eventually. An American writer comes to New Zealand to meet you? I wanted you to hear it from me.”

  “Fine.” She scrubbed at a plate as though she wanted to take off the design as well as any food residue. “You’ve told me. Job done. Now leave.”

  “I won’t write the story. I can’t write the story if you won’t help. And yes, I’ve crossed a line here. I’m sorry about that, but honestly? I’m not that sorry. This has been the nicest time, just us here. I don’t want to leave New Zealand without getting everything said.”

  Gemma wheeled on him. “And I just want you to leave without another word on the subject. Now, I can lock you out of the cabin and let you make your own w
ay into town or I can drive you into New Plymouth so you can check into a motel. Take your pick.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Gemma, please.”

  She shook her head, her lips pressed in a flat line.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Let me explain.”

  She shook her head once more, then turned away to wash dishes.

  Steve waited a long minute, then went to gather up his toiletries from the bathroom. Bittersweet memories everywhere he looked. They’d jostled each other at this sink, brushing their teeth, both of them eager to get into bed and into each other’s arms. They’d woken up, limbs tangled and ready for more sex. They’d come into the bedroom to change into their swimsuits—Gemma’s a seriously sexy two-piece that hugged her curves the way he wanted to—and as often as not, they’d end up making love before they could even get to the beach.

  And they’d talked. True, Gemma never talked about her life now, but she’d been so witty and evocative about her childhood. Her vivid descriptions made it real for Steve. He could picture the one girl cousin, a little set apart because of her parentage—her father was a Maori who’d left her mum when Gemma was a newborn—but welcomed by her cousins as long as she wasn’t squeamish about creepy-crawlies. She’d made Steve want to write about her. But he couldn’t do that without mentioning her grandmother, and he was right back where he’d started.

  Steve struggled as he packed his clothes. He was going to miss her so much more than she’d ever know. He’d brought this on himself by lying and cheating just to meet her, but the truth was he simply couldn’t regret that. His Naughty in New Zealand temptress turned out to be a warm, loving, generous woman who was as much fun in bed as out in the world.

  She’d never know he felt that way. And he’d never see her again.

  *

  Gemma got home well past midnight, stumbling up the stairs, desperate to get to her bedroom before she started crying again.

  Tui came out into the hallway before Gemma could get away. “You made it home, did you?”

  There was so much condemnation in the nurse’s voice that Gemma stopped short. “Did something happen to Gran?”

  “Of course not. I’d have called your mobile. But you show up at an hour when you should be in the arms of your young man—”

  “He’s not my young man,” Gemma protested.

  “Of course he is, pihinga.”

  Her use of the Maori word for a young thing conveyed affection. Affection…and a reminder that Gemma still had a lot to learn. She came back down the stairs and sat on the landing.

  “He came to write about Gran,” she said. Even her voice sounded grim.

  Tui pushed her over and sat down next to her. “Okay. So he’s an arsehole. Still, you like him, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And does he like you?”

  Gemma swiveled around to look at her. “Of course he doesn’t. He just wanted me to tell him about Gran.”

  “Yes. Well, we’ll get to that,” Tui said cryptically. “But tell me the truth. Does he like you?”

  Gemma hesitated, then nodded her head once.

  “Why did you go with him to your cousin’s cabin?”

  “Because I wanted to spend time with him.” Gemma could barely choke out the words.

  Tui nodded. “That’s right. And he’s the first man you’ve wanted to be with since before I knew you.” She tapped Gemma on the forearm. “You are a good judge of people. He is not a bad man.”

  “But he was just using me to get to Gran.”

  “Maybe he came here for that reason, but he did not go to Wai-iti for that reason.”

  Gemma struggled to her feet. “Maybe not, but that’s all done now. He’s gone to Auckland and I’ll never see him again.”

  “Unless you do,” Tui said.

  Gemma stared at the top of Tui’s grizzled head. Silly woman, believing in the romantic stories of her people.

  *

  Steve checked back into the motel in Taupo, having spent six hours on a bus thinking. He had three more days before he went home and he was determined to make the best use possible.

  Step one, get into that house.

  Step two, make Gemma believe he didn’t care about her grandmother anymore. Let Bethany live in peace. He’d find something else to write about, and he could ask his brother to forgive the loan if money got really tight. Maybe he’d go back to writing fiction. It would work out.

  Step three, get Gemma to see that he really cared for her.

  That was it. No step four…yet. He’d figure that out when he got a chance. First he had to get into the house.

  A taxi drove Steve to the address he had, a gracious white house on a hill overlooking the lake. He walked up to an entry porch deep enough for padded benches to be built in under the eaves. At his knock, a short, stocky woman with the copper-tinged skin of the Maori answered the door.

  “Ah, the young man,” she said with a toothy grin. “Come in. I’ll get Miss Gemma.”

  Steve was shown into a gorgeous sitting room dominated by picture windows overlooking the lake. He stood awkwardly at a window, staring at nothing much, his ears straining to hear Gemma’s approach.

  “Why are you here?”

  He pivoted. She looked tired, sad, angry and confused. In a word, young.

  “For you. To talk to you.”

  She shook her head and started to turn away.

  “Wait. Gemma, please, let me explain.” He held out the ridiculously large bouquet of flowers he’d brought. Her back was to him, so she couldn’t see them. Steve watched her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.

  He tried again. “I brought you something.”

  She turned. “You can put the flowers on the table and leave.”

  “Not the flowers. I mean, yes, I brought you flowers. But I brought something else.”

  She hesitated. “What?”

  He put the flowers down and reached into his pocket for a slim book. “The Lake. It’s a first edition, the original Auckland publisher. It’s worth a lot of money, or it would be if it was in better condition. I’ve written in it, and spilled coffee on it, and, well, lived with it.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why are you carrying that around?”

  He looked at the book. Tears prickled his eyes. “May I explain?”

  “Okay.” She nodded at the grandfather’s clock in the corner. “You have fifteen minutes.”

  Steve waited until she sat in one of the armchairs flanking the fireplace. He sat in the other. “I studied Sins for Breakfast in college. Well, big deal, right? Everyone studied it in college. But it meant something to me. That family pain was so much like my own.”

  He waited, gathering himself to say the thing he never told people. “My father’s in prison for shooting my mother.” She gasped. He waited for the burn, the scalding shame that always followed even the memory of what happened. For once, it didn’t hurt quite so much. Perhaps because he was telling Gemma.

  “That’s—how horrible. I’m so—I don’t know what to say. How old were you?”

  “Sixteen. I had to finish high school while they tried him for murder.”

  When he looked at her, her hands were pressing down on the arms of her chair, as though she was on the verge of leaping up. In disgust? Disbelief?

  “It sounds awful. You were so young.”

  He shook his head, bent over his hands. Her sympathy felt good, but that wasn’t why he was telling her. “It’s old news. But back then? Fresh out of high school and the hell of the trial? Reading Sins for Breakfast meant everything. I wanted to talk to Bethany, ask her what had happened to cause her to write about that level of pain. Then The Lake came out. I spent an enormous amount of money I didn’t really have to get it immediately. It just reinforced my idea that I knew her. She was like an aunt I could talk to.”

  Silence.

  Was she even paying attention? When he checked, she seemed in pain, her mouth twisted, her lips compressed.
/>   “Okay, so I know I was committing that sin readers commit, where we want the author of the book to be as wonderful as the book. That’s why I didn’t do anything for years. But it never went away. I read everything I could about your gra—about Bethany. And as my career advanced and I developed as a freelance journalist, I thought I’d try.”

  Steve walked over to the windows. He couldn’t face her. This was the hard part to admit, but he had to say it. “It got to be an obsession. I was convinced that your grandmother would be on the internet, chatting with her garden club or something.”

  Behind him, Gemma snorted.

  “Instead, I found you. You’d commented on sheep farming, talking about Robbie’s farm, I think. From there, I found Naughty in New Zealand. We kind of hit it off. At least I thought so.”

  “No, we did.”

  He could just pick up her words, her voice was so quiet. “Okay, so you know everything from there on.” He walked over to kneel in front of her chair. He took her hands in his. “I’ll understand if you don’t believe me, but it was all about you from the moment I saw you in that awesome dress and shaky makeup.”

  Her eyes, edged with damp clotted lashes, flew to his. Her mouth open to protest. Then she tilted her head in that way she had when she was thinking. “Yeah, I don’t have a lot of practice.”

  He kissed her cheek, just under her eye. “I know,” he whispered against her skin.

  “It’s my mum’s dress, from the seventies.” Gemma leaned back, checking his reaction.

  “You looked spectacular. But I like you better like this,” he said, waving a hand up and down. She had on a peasant skirt, sandals and a tank top. Most of her hair was caught in a clip, but tendrils dribbled down her back. He wanted more than anything to kiss along their lengths, down her spine, around her ear, across her shoulder.

  Hell, he just wanted to kiss her all over, for as long as it took.

  Steve was trying to think what else he could say when she stood up.

  “Come with me.” She led him around the base of the staircase and into a sunny room with fancy Chinese wallpaper. The hospital bed was a shock, though, as was the wizened woman in the bed. It took him a moment to realize it was Bethany Jarvis-Robison, and another moment to see that she was in no shape to write, talk, be interviewed, or pretty much anything else.