Blame It on the Blackout (3 page)

She could have…if she'd thought of it.

The rest of the drive passed in silence until they pulled up in front of the Four Seasons on M Street, very close to the city limits of Georgetown. Peter set aside their empty glasses as the driver came around to open their door, then stepped out and turned back to offer Lucy his hand.

Arms linked, they walked into the elegant hotel lobby. A large banner and smaller, raised signs announced the City Women benefit and directed guests to the bank of elevators leading upstairs. Several couples were already there, and Peter and Lucy joined them.

The last ones in, they were at the front near the doors. She could feel the heat of Peter's hand at the small of her back, through the sheer material of her shawl. She tipped her head to look at him over her shoulder, noticing the thin line of his mouth, the tightness in his jaw. Her eyes narrowed, and she was about to ask if he was all right when the elevator doors opened with a swish. The pressure at her back increased as he urged her forward, into the plush, paneled hallway and in the direction of the crowded ballroom.

Round tables draped with hunter-green and pink linens to match the City Women's trademark colors filled the room, each seating ten to twelve people. At the front, a raised platform held long, rectangular tables on either side of a tall podium.

As soon as his eyes landed on the microphone he would be using for his acceptance speech, Peter made a choking sound and stuck a finger behind the collar of his shirt, as though the small black tie was cutting off his air supply.

“You'll be fine,” she assured him, laying a hand on his elbow and running it down the length of his arm until their fingers twined. “Now we'd better get up there before Mrs. Harper-Whitfield starts ‘yoo-hooing' for you over everyone's heads.”

He groaned. “Please, no. Not Mrs. Harper-Whitfield.”

Laughing, they started through the crowd, nodding and saying hello to acquaintances, stopping to chat only
when they weren't given much choice. When they finally reached their seats, the City Women directors and founding members flocked to Peter's side, thanking him for coming, complimenting him on his latest donation or software creation.

Lucy sat beside him, a smile permanently etched on her face for the stream of admirers who paraded past, wanting a moment or two with the esteemed Peter Reynolds.

Finally dinner was served, and they were left mostly to themselves while everyone enjoyed delicious servings of thinly sliced beef, steamed broccoli, lightly seasoned new potatoes, and fruit tartlets for dessert. Hundreds of mingled voices filled the room, making a private conversation difficult.

Lucy realized, too, that Peter was inordinately nervous about getting up in front of such a large group. But no matter how slowly he ate, the meal was soon over and the City Women president was addressing the crowd, describing the organization's accomplishments of the past several months and relaying some very moving success stories.

As soon as the speaker began talking about that one special contributor who had helped to fill their shelters with computer equipment and offer women avenues other than remaining in abusive situations, Lucy felt Peter tense beside her. His entire body went taut, and his knuckles turned white where they tried to squeeze the life out of a poor, defenseless cloth napkin.

Turning unobtrusively in his direction, she leaned close enough to be heard and whispered, “Relax.” She covered his clenched fist with the palm of her hand, gently stroking his warm skin until his grip on the linen loosened. Setting the napkin aside, she slipped her free hand beneath the lapel of his tuxedo jacket and retrieved the stack of index cards she knew would be there.

“Take a deep breath,” she ordered in a soft, soothing tone. “You've done this a million times before, you'll be fine. And if all else fails, remember to picture everyone naked.”

His head whipped around and his gaze, hot, green and intense, drifted over her, lingering a little too long on the area of her waist and breasts.

“Not
me,
” she growled with a roll of her eyes, putting three fingers to his cheek and pushing him away.

The City Women president smiled brightly as she finished her introduction and the spotlight swung to Peter. Lucy shoved the note cards into his hand and urged him to his feet before joining in on the applause.

In the end, he had nothing to worry about. His speech was both funny and poignant, delivered with perfect pitch by a man who could flirt a nun out of her habit. Before he finished, Peter promised to continue refurbishing and donating used PCs for the organization's use, earning him a standing ovation and another round of boisterous applause. The City Women then gifted him with a plaque in appreciation of his aid.

From there, everyone moved across the hall to a second ballroom where an orchestra was set up to play for the rest of the night, as well as four cash bars that would split their profits with the hosting charity.

Now that his speech was over, Peter was much more relaxed and willing to mingle with a crowd that obviously adored him. And Lucy knew this was her cue to spring into action. To approach some of D.C.'s wealthiest citizens and talk up Peter's freshman software company, convincing them that any man who would volunteer so much time and money to such a worthy cause certainly deserved a modicum of support for his own interests. She would set up appointments for them to visit Peter at home, see samples of his work and discuss his plans for the future of Reyware.

Two long, exhausting hours later, Lucy had set up twenty-odd meetings for the following weeks and was fighting not to yawn and offend all the people she'd just spent half the night trying to impress.

Coming up behind her, Peter slid an arm around her waist, resting his chin on the slope of her shoulder. “Have we put in our time yet? Can we get the hell out of here?”

“I thought you were enjoying yourself,” she said without turning around.

“Making the most of a bad situation…it's not quite the same thing. So how about it—wanna blow this Popsicle stand?”

She checked her watch. Nearly midnight. “I sup
pose it wouldn't be too terribly rude to leave now. We have been here for almost four hours.”

“Feels like six. Besides, I want to get home and find a place to hang my new plaque.” He waved the chunk of wood and gold plating in front of her as they made their way to the outskirts of the ballroom and sneaked off—
hopefully
—without being noticed.

The elevators were free, the doors sliding open as soon as Peter punched the down button. They were alone inside the carpeted, glass-walled car, and Lucy once again spotted signs of strain bracketing his mouth, his fingers clenching around the brass handhold that ran along all three sides.

“Do you have a problem with elevators?” she asked, drawing his attention from the glowing red numbers above the door.

“Elevators? No, why?”

“Because you seem awfully uncomfortable. I noticed it on the ride up earlier, too. We could have taken the stairs, you know.”

He shook his head. “I'm fine. I just like getting off elevators more than I like getting on them.”

That was an understatement, she thought, but didn't say anything more since they were only going from the fourth floor to the lobby. But then the lights flickered and Peter glanced up in alarm. A second later, the entire car went dark, lurching to a stop somewhere between floors as the cables and computerized panels groaned in protest.

“What's going on? Why aren't we moving?” Peter wanted to know, banging on the controls as though hitting all the buttons at once would miraculously send them back into motion.

“I think the power might be out,” she told him, waiting for her vision to adjust to the pitch-black.

“Oh, God. How long do you think it will take them to get it back on?”

She shrugged and then realized he couldn't see her. “You know how these things are. Sometimes the electricity only flickers off for a few minutes, other times it takes all night.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned.

Peter's breathing echoed off the walls, heavy and exaggerated. She reached out, feeling for him, until her fingertips encountered the soft fabric of his tuxedo jacket.

“Take it easy, Peter. The elevator isn't even moving now.”

“That's the problem,” he gritted out, punctuating each word with a hard rap to the metal doors. “The damn thing isn't moving!”

A shiver of dread skated down her spine. “I thought you didn't like being in elevators because of that weird up-and-down sensation you get in your stomach.”

“Ha!” The sound came out strangled and his breathing grew even more ragged. Beneath her hand, the muscles of his arm bunched and released.

“It's not
elevators,
” he snapped. “They haven't invented an elevator yet that moves fast enough for me. It's enclosed spaces. I can't stand small, enclosed spaces.”

U
h-oh.

“You're claustrophobic?”

How could he be claustrophobic? And how could she not know about it?

She'd been working with him for two years now. She knew his favorite foods, his favorite color, his favorite pair of boxer shorts, for heaven's sake. How could she have missed the fact that he was claustrophobic?

“Just a little.”

His response came out on a wheeze and she realized he was seriously downplaying just how upset he was by this sudden set of circumstances.

“All right, let's not panic,” she said, as much to her
self as to him. She moved closer, rubbing his arm, his shoulder. “The power will probably come right back on. Until then, why don't you tell me how long you've had this little problem.”

“Forever. Long as I can remember.” A beat passed while he sucked in air like a drowning victim. “Is it hot in here? It's too hot in here.”

She felt him struggling to shed his jacket even though she didn't think the temperature had gone up a single degree since the lights went off. His high level of anxiety probably had his internal thermostat going haywire.

“Here, let me help.” She took the suitcoat, folding it in half and setting it aside in what she hoped was a safe corner.

“And what do you usually do when you find yourself in an enclosed space?” If she could keep him talking, maybe he wouldn't think so much about where they were. She might even get lucky and figure out a way to keep him calm until the elevator started moving again.

He laughed, a raw, harsh sound. “Go crazy? Throw up? Pass out?”

This was a side of Peter she'd never seen before. Sure, he was slightly scattered, a bit of a computer nerd. More focused on the new program he was designing than whether his hair was combed or there was enough milk in the refrigerator for breakfast.

But, other than the occasional round of public speaking, he was also strong and self-assured. So handsome,
he made her teeth hurt. And he was in better physical shape than anyone would expect for a man who spent twenty-three hours of most days staring at a computer screen. He carried himself like a man with a mission; one who knew exactly why he'd been put on this earth and was simply going about the business of carrying out that task.

Little had she known he harbored this secret claustrophobia.

“Oh, God.” He was punching buttons again, growing more agitated by the second. “We're going to die in here.”

She bit down on her lip to keep from laughing out loud at that outrageous pronouncement. “We are
not
going to die. Come on. Come over here and sit down.”

Taking his elbow, she tugged him away from the front of the elevator until they hit the rear wall. It took some doing, but she finally got him to the floor.

Covering his face with his hands, he muttered, “I don't feel very well. I think I might be sick.”

“You're fine. Everything's going to be fine.” She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand, finding it warm and damp with perspiration. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“If your eyes are closed, you won't even know the lights are off. We'll talk and pretend we're back at the house, and before you know it, that's exactly where you'll be.”

He gave a raspy chuckle. “I don't think that's going to work.”

Running two fingers lightly over his eyelids, she whispered, “You never know until you try.”

His chest still heaved with the speed of his breathing and she could feel his body shaking against her own.

“You're in your office,” she murmured, thinking she sounded an awful lot like a hypnotist. “Working on the latest version of Soldiers of Misfortune, throwing in some extra severed heads and damsels in distress. The kids will love it.”

“Too much violence. Should be more socially conscious.”

She laughed at that, knowing how much time he spent worrying that his computer games were too mature for their audiences. “You're just socially conscious enough. Now focus. You're at your desk, swigging down your tenth can of soda…I'll be in any minute with your mail, and to chastise you for drinking too much of that sugar water.”

“Nectar of the gods.”

“The gods of Type-2 Diabetes, maybe.” She played with the ends of his silky hair, trying to keep him from hurting himself as he banged his head rhythmically against the back wall of the elevator.

“You worry too much about me.”

His comment caught her off guard, and for a minute she didn't respond. She did worry too much about him, but she couldn't help it. She cared about him, too—too much. She cared that he worked long hours and didn't
get enough sleep, that he didn't eat right and inhaled cola like it was oxygen. And she cared that he was so upset about being stuck in this elevator in the middle of a blackout.

“Not too much,” she said finally. “Just enough.”

Was it her imagination, or was he calming down? His breathing didn't seem quite as loud now, and the fidgeting had slowed to a bare minimum.

A minute ticked by in silence while she waited to see if he was all right. If maybe he'd fallen asleep or really believed he was in his office, working on his latest Games of PRey installment.

But suddenly, the trembling started again, worse than before, and he shot to his feet. “This isn't working. We have to get out of here before we run out of air. Why isn't anyone trying to get us out?”

He pounded on the doors with his fists, shouting for help, on the verge of hyperventilating. Lucy made another grab for him, pulling him away, fighting the claustrophobia for his attention.

“Peter. Peter, stop. Listen to me.” She framed his face with her hands, able to see the barest outline of his silhouette now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. “You're okay. Everything's going to be okay.”

“No, no, no…” He shook his head emphatically, not listening or unwilling to believe. “I can't breathe.”

She could feel the pulse at his throat beating out of control and knew she was losing him. But what else
could she do? How did you calm someone who was on the brink of a breakdown?

The answer came to her in a flash and she didn't give herself time to second guess. Leaning up on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his, kissing him as she'd always imagined. Her fingers slipped from his cheeks to his nape, tangling in the slightly long hair growing over his collar.

He tasted of scotch and heat and just plain Peter, and she wondered why she'd waited two years to do this. It was crazy, it was wrong, but it was also so darn good, her skin was threatening to melt right off her bones.

And best of all, Peter's panic seemed to have subsided. He wrapped his arms about her waist and dragged her closer, opening his mouth to let their tongues parry and thrust.

Their bodies rubbed together like two pieces of flint, all but shooting sparks. Her breasts, crushed to his chest, grew heavy and sensitive with desire, her nipples beading to nearly painful points. Lower, the hard line of his arousal nudged the area between her legs.

In the back of his mind, Peter knew he was supposed to be thinking about something. The dark, the broken-down elevator, getting out, or dying before anyone discovered them. But damned if he could find it in him to care about anything other than the warm, willing woman in his arms.

Lucy. He shouldn't be kissing Lucy…his assistant, his friend, the one person he didn't want to offend be
cause, as he often joked, she knew where the bodies were buried.

But, God, she felt good. She smelled good, like flowers in springtime, with an overlaying scent of musk that made him think of hot, sweaty sex. And she tasted amazing.

Since puberty, he'd had his share of fantasies about making out with beauty queens and X-rated starlets; sometimes both at the same time. But no dream, no matter how erotic, could ever live up to what was happening right here, right now. She made steam rise from his pores and every drop of blood in his veins rush straight for the equator.

His hands slid from her waist to her buttocks, drawing her up and crushing her against the straining evidence of his enthusiasm. If they didn't stop soon, it would be too late.

But he had no intention of stopping. The ground would have to open up and swallow him whole. This elevator that had trapped them so securely would have to break from its cables and crush them like pancakes. Because unless an act of God pulled them apart, he was going to make love to Lucy Grainger.

Finally.

The lack of light heightened every sensation, the fireworks exploding behind his closed eyelids almost more than he could bear. He'd wanted her far too long to take things slow.

Letting his lips trail from her mouth to her chin, to
the tender flesh of her throat, he found the zipper at the back of her gown and slowly dragged it downward. His knuckles grazed her spine with each click of the zipper's teeth and she moaned, sending shivers of awareness through to his nerve endings.

As the barrier of her dress fell away, he unhooked the clasp of her strapless bra and cupped the two glorious globes of her breasts in the palms of his hands. His thumbs teased the nipples, drawing a gasp of pleasure from her parted lips.

Peter kissed her again, wanting to devour her, absorb her into his every pore. Her hands on his chest felt like iron brands. She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt until the tails came free of his pants. He reached up and yanked the bow tie from his neck before it choked him as she pushed the shirt off over his shoulders.

Her soft, delicate hands explored his body like a blind man exploring a work of art. Her sharp, manicured fingernails left trails of fire along his skin, making him want to growl low in his throat and take her like an animal. Only the knowledge that this was Lucy, a woman he cared about and would never intentionally hurt, kept him from throwing her down and driving into her right that second.

Instead he wrapped an arm around her back and lowered her slowly to the carpeted elevator floor. The shirt caught at his elbows hampered his movements, but he didn't want to waste time removing his cuff links and
stripping down completely. Cradled in the hollow of her thighs, the gown bunched now around her hips, he let her thread her fingers into his hair and pull him down for a soul-stealing kiss.

Circling her ankle first, and then the sleek curve of her calf, he ran his hand over the satiny stocking encasing her leg. When he reached the top of her thigh, he found a wide band of elasticized lace and groaned. No panty hose to deal with, just sexy, convenient thigh-highs and a pair of barely there French-cut panties that could be slipped off in one quick motion or simply pushed aside when the time came.

Which would be soon. He couldn't last much longer, being this close to her, feeling her breasts with their pebbled peaks and the dampness of her desire soaking through her panties.

A muscle in his jaw jumped as his hand encountered that moisture and he rested his head against her brow for a moment, praying for the restraint it would take not to lose it then and there. But either God was on a break or Lucy was determined to shatter his self-control because she arched her back, ground her pelvis into his throbbing erection, and panted his name on a whisper of sound.

It was the name that did it. If she had only moaned or muttered nonsensical words, he might have kept it together. Hearing his name on her lips, though, realizing that she knew exactly who was touching her, making love to her, and that she had no intention of coming
to her senses and asking him to stop, sent him straight over the edge.

Reaching between their hot, writhing bodies, he undid the front clasp of his slacks, shoving them down just enough to free his rigid length. At the same time, he stripped the flimsy satin triangle from her hips and spread her legs farther apart. With his hands on her bottom, he found the tight, feminine opening that beckoned him like a siren's song and entered her in one long, solid thrust.

Lucy cried out as Peter filled her. Her lungs felt ready to burst, her body burning with rising lust. She lifted her legs, crossing them at the ankles behind his back, and dug her nails into his shoulders, imploring him to move, to put an end to this torture.

“Please,” she begged, surprised she could speak at all. Every fiber of her being vibrated with desire, pulsed with need. If he didn't bring her to orgasm soon, she thought, she just might die.

“Yes, please. Now.”

His voice rasped like sandpaper as he pressed into her, then slowly began to retreat. In and out, his movements sending delicious shock waves through her system. The faster he thrust, the more rapid her breathing became. The tighter her insides wound. And when he slipped his fingers over the mound of curls, into her pulsating heat, to toy with the tiny nub of pleasure nestled there, she went wild.

Hips bucking, arms clutched around his back, her
inner muscles spasmed, milking him until he gave a low, guttural shout of completion and came inside her.

 

For long minutes after the most powerful climax of his life, Peter could do little more than lie there, sprawled across Lucy's supple body. Her heart pounded against his chest, keeping time with his own. Her nails clung to his back like talons, much as his dug into the cushiony flesh of her hips and buttocks. Her harsh breaths beat out a staccato rhythm in his ear and the pitch-black confines of the elevator car, echoing his own struggle to suck air into his deprived lungs.

And all he could think was that he'd just had earth-shattering, mind-blowing, rock-my-world sex with the one woman he'd sworn he would never touch.

The walls were beginning to close in on him again, but in a whole different way. Yes, the elevator felt stuffy and too small for his large frame. He wondered if they'd even have enough oxygen to survive until power was restored. But all of that drifted to the far reaches of his mind as he imagined the repercussions of what they'd just done.