Читать книгу Timeless - Daisy Banks - Страница 8

Chapter 4

The line of traffic shunted along at a snail’s pace, and Sian checked the clock on the dash. “Sod it,” she cursed. A new flash of blue lights about half a mile in front meant she wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

An accident, it must be. She’d be late again, on the back foot with Mr. Johansson from the word go.

Her best cashmere business suit would be creased to hell, and she’d twitch under the lash of his animosity. As if she needed any more tension for this meeting. For two days solid, she’d repeated the mantra he can’t read my dreams, but even as she did, she twitched in all the wrong places for another taste of him. Waiting for the traffic to move, she tapped her foot, gnawed at her lip.

Desperate for something to help calm her, she shoved on one of her relaxation CDs, but the soft melodic sounds didn’t soothe. Her agitation seemed multiplied by them. “Come on,” she shouted at the line of cars in front, but her yell made no difference. It took her a further twenty minutes to get past the hold-up.

As soon as she had gone by the police cars, she put her foot down hard, swung her car out into the fast lane and hammered it all the way to the turn off for Darnwell village. The car was well over the speed limit as she pelted along the hectic miles of road that wound through dense woodland to the gothic palace belonging to Count Johansson.

She had to get there.

The compulsion intensified the closer she got. At last, the black gates came into view, and relief overcame apprehension, for a few seconds at least. Small stones spun, lumps zinging at her paintwork, as she sped up the drive. She slammed the brakes on and shot out of the car as fast as she could.

Today at least, no rain marred the view, but the place remained as though it lurked in the rich wealth of trees around it. Forgoing the antique doorknocker, she rang the bell and waited. “He can’t read my dreams,” she muttered, one last effort at her mantra. The knots in her stomach and the nagging need to see him didn’t dissipate.

Oh God.

Magnus opened the door, and his gaze locked on hers. He knew. She fought to remain standing, gripped the doorjamb for support. Not only did he know, but he wanted her to understand that he knew. The realization coiled around her tight as gaffer tape. His dark eyes held the calculating flash of hunting yellow, and she stifled the urge to run, to race away as fast as she could...with the prayer he’d follow and capture her.

“Sorry I’m late again,” she said, breathed in his cologne, and tried to catch hold of her sanity.

“Good morning, Miss Armstrong,” he said. “I had the local radio on. I knew you’d be late with the accident. It’s caused a massive hold-up. I won’t ask if your journey was good. Where would you like to start today?”

Her mouth dried in anticipation. She’d like to start by tearing off the gray casual shirt he wore and raking her nails over the muscles it hid. Her heartbeat raced. She’d like to start by savaging his mouth, as he’d taken hers, by shoving him to the floor and straddling him. Wetness dampened her underwear. Then she’d open the zip on those jeans and find him hot and hard. She’d like to start now.

Swallowing her need along with the lump in her throat, she fought for control. “Erm…” She flicked her glance over to the trees, anything to avoid his enticing gaze. “As the weather’s better today, what about another look at the gardens?” she finally managed, reaching for her computer. “I’ll just get...” Oh, hell. She’d left the bag in the car. “I’ll go and get my iPad.”

“I’m sure you could manage without it. Why not walk and take in the impressions first. You can always come back for it after lunch.” His light tone didn’t match the intensity of his gaze.

“Lunch?” she said. “I didn’t know I was staying for lunch.”

“I thought you might like to. It will give the traffic time to clear.” He took two or three paces from her, and his dark hair glinted as he stepped into a patch of sunlight. But he didn’t belong in the light. This man roared his part of the darkness, stifled her in shadows. He belonged in the black velvet of night and the mysterious twilight grays of evening. She could hardly breathe, struggled to take another gulp of air. The muscles of her inner thighs clenched and a quiver of excitement stole slowly over her.

“This way, Miss Armstrong.”

Heaven help her get through the day without begging him to… Quashing her desire down, she followed his long stride over the gravel. Through the arch in the wall, she stepped after him into a formal rose garden. A deep breath here firmed her resolve.

There had been so many opportunities over the years with the company to get involved with clients, all of which she’d gracefully declined. Mr. Johansson would learn he was no different. Entanglements of that kind led to bad business, or so her boss warned her. The irrational fascination with this compelling man had to stop.

No matter what, he couldn’t read her dreams.

The roses, almost at the end of their season, smelled heady sweet as she breathed them in, and their fragrance calmed her. The rose beds were set in geometric squares trimmed with box hedging. Green wrought iron benches stood at intervals along the paths.

He turned and glanced over his shoulder. “Do you believe in dreams?”

An involuntary shudder raised gooseflesh. “Some,” she murmured, unwilling to encourage this topic of conversation.

Still and unblinking, he studied her for a few seconds before he nodded, and the memory of his body with hers flooded through her, so she ached for him inside her again.

“This garden was once a dream, but it became a reality.” His lips moved in what might have been the start of a smile.

Bastard. He deliberately tormented her. This so called gentleman needed to find out she wasn’t going to be coerced by him. “Interesting though I’m sure the story is, Mr. Johansson, I don’t think this is quite right for our purposes” she said in her most professional, close-the-deal-today manner. Not waiting for his answer, she paced past him. “Is there more?” she asked without looking back.

“Much.” The whisper close her ear sent a warm breath against her skin and sped her pulse to thundering. “Miss Armstrong, would you prefer I leave you to explore alone?”

“No,” she snapped, and nipped at her lip. Right now she’d no need to be alone.

“There is the wood? On the other hand, we could take a walk down to the lake,” he said.

“You choose.”

“We’ll go to the lake, and perhaps I can show you the woods after we’ve had lunch?”

“Fine.” The snarl in her voice startled her. She hadn’t meant to sound so pissed off. But anger snapped through her. Why? Because sound business sense be damned, she wanted him to touch her, not torment her, and he hadn’t made a move. Anger he’d not admitted the truth she knew he shared with her became entangled with her need for him.

Damn it.

If only she could have sent Richard to this meeting today instead of coming here herself. But she’d wanted to see the owner of this house again, needed to look at him to convince herself Mr. Johansson was real, and he wasn’t Magnus, the amazing, wonderful sex partner her mind had created. Prove to herself beyond any doubt this man couldn’t be the lover she’d waited for her whole life.

She gnawed her lip, as he walked past to lead her through another archway and onto a long terrace overlooking a massive expanse of tree-lined lawn. At the bottom of the lawn lay a lake, the rills of water on its surface sparkling in the sun. Willows grew at its edges, and what had once probably been a bright red Japanese pagoda stood in its center, reached by a causeway. Her breath caught in her throat. She’d no idea the grounds would be this extensive. Images of dancers romping into the gardens, the lead couple kissing by the lake, the opportunities for the Timeless film swam in her thoughts. Love here would be inevitable for the characters from the song. This place was meant for romance.

His dark eyes drank her down deep. “Ah, the lake pleases you?” he asked, inclining his head.

She nodded, not even sure what she’d agreed to. A shiver flashed down her spine, but this wasn’t fear. Not now. She needed his hands on her.

“Let’s walk that way for a while?”

She nodded again. “Mr. Johansson,” she said, attempting to tell him the estate was breath taking, should be open to public view. But the words wouldn’t come, for her mouth grew too dry.

“Magnus, please, Miss Armstrong, if you will?”

Magnus. The word beat inside her like a hammer on a bell. Magnus. With each step she took, his name became part of her, thundered through her blood and entwined with her heartbeat.

“The Lebanon Cedar trees were planted in the late eighteenth century,” he said as they passed along the row, which towered above them, the branches thick with growth. “At one time there was a boat house for the lake, but I’m afraid it’s gone now.”

The morning sun warmed through her. A last fling of summer before the fall colors took the leaves, and the first frosts crisped each dawn.

“Do you think any of this would suit your purposes?” he asked, standing in front of her, his silhouette an intense dark shape gilded at the edges by a nimbus of sunlight.

“Yes,” she said on a sigh, taking a step. “Yes.” She leaned forward, closing the gap between them. “It’s beautiful,” slid from her.

“I am pleased you find it so.” The rise of his smile tilted one corner of his mouth.

A thrill shimmied, dancing with staccato steps over her heart, while his enthralling expression grew more powerful still, until both corners of his mouth lifted. His pleasure shone in his eyes, sparks of navy blue flickering, so intense his gaze glistened like wet slate. The gleam of his teeth flashed for a brief second. Satisfaction radiated from him in a warm wave. The earth shook.

The sky spun up above her as she sagged toward the turf.

Magnus cradled her to his chest as he lifted her up. “You’ve overtaxed your strength, my dear. Let me help you?”

Limp, her bones soft as melted marshmallow, she lay in his embrace and he carried her across the wooden causeway to the pagoda. “I’ll be all right,” she murmured. “I need to sit down for a minute, that’s all.”

Low and rumbling, his laughter thrummed through her body. The sound stunned her. She’d not expected this man to laugh.

“Miss Armstrong, you need to learn when to admit defeat,” he said.

“I’m invincible,” she replied, but it was a lie, and when he covered her mouth with his and the sweet sensation she remembered blistered through her flesh, she happily took the first step to completeness.

* * * *

Soft, delicate as a flower, she opened her lips under the caress of his, and she tasted sweet, minty fresh. His rising need deepened with their kiss, so he took command of her mouth, instructed her with exquisite precision in exactly what he hoped for from her. The increase in her breathing rate and her sighed responses promised him her participation would be all he could wish.

The force of her will astonished him. For two nights she’d fought him off, banished him from her dreams with ease. Even when he’d managed to sneak in, she’d caged him. Today, she’d held him off every step of the way to the lake. She wanted him, he was certain, but didn’t want to give in, not this soon. She’d tested him and all his skills. But now, at last, he’d managed to slip through her defenses because she embraced him to her, nestled against him in the place she belonged. Her love of beauty, no less than his, left her vulnerable. The sound of her breathy moans encouraged him to slide and roll his tongue with hers. Desire flashed deep in his gut.

Dreams would live. They throbbed through him.

Today, he’d take his time and try to find the key to the power she had over him, and the way to placate the will it had taken him so long to bend to his own.

The small, sun-faded pagoda was a little dusty, but dry. The large day bed he lowered her onto, its only piece of furniture, accepted their combined weight with ease. He caressed her hand, kissed her thumb, and slid his tongue over the red polish on her nail. Her eyes had become nearly all dark pupil. A small sigh broke from her as he moved his lips slowly from her thumb to the tip of her index finger. Sucking her finger, stroking with his tongue over the very tip, wrapping around her flesh, he enjoyed the trembles running through her.

When he moved his mouth to the next finger, she tried to pull him to her with her other hand. He shook his head, sucking her finger deeper into his mouth, up to the knuckle. Deliberately, he slid her finger slowly from his lips. “It’s my turn today,” he said.

Her eyes widened in response.

“You had your turn,” he explained.

The last trace of resistance slipped from her, and he enjoyed the sense of anticipation of her body with his. Only once he’d tasted all of her fingers did he bend down to kiss her lips again. She whimpered and thrust herself up toward him, rubbed her breasts against his chest and hooked her calf over his thigh. Her lips, succulent and hot, met his. Mouth open wider, she lashed his tongue with hers.

Beneath her jersey blouse, he found skin softer than her silk underwear. As he rolled one rigid nipple between his fingers, she moaned, and he unhooked her bra, pushed it up so he could hold the weight of her breasts in his palms. The desire to capture her nipples with his mouth, to soothe and torment them until she cried out in pleasure, ached inside him. Rolling the jersey top from her, he pulled the bra away and unable to stop himself, fell to feeding on her flesh as he would on the most delicate dainty the world could offer.

A cry broke from her as he sucked one of her nipples deeply into his mouth. Molding her other breast under his palm, he rubbed the plump mound. The friction would delight her.

“Magnus,” she gasped, as he moved to the other nipple and captured it in his teeth. Tart sweet the taste of her, like a ripe cherry. “Magnus!” broke from her again as he bit gently down. Swiftly he worked at the button on her trousers, and more of her luscious flesh entered his mouth as she pushed her breast forward.

He yanked the expensive business trousers from her. The scent of her arousal was unmistakable and the need for her raced through his blood.

Damn it, she’d think him a savage, but he could scarce stop. He tore the underwear away, and the sweet smell of her made his mouth water. “Yes, you know what I need, you know I need you,” he whispered over her stomach, opening her thighs so he could enjoy all of her.

Soft little whimpers left her, as he parted her folds and tasted her with a sweep of his tongue, and she arched against him. “Not yet,” he whispered, smoothing his palms over her silky thighs. Her clitoris was swollen, tempting. He stroked the heated bead slowly, pushing at it, and a tremble ran through the muscles of the thighs he held spread apart. A low, lengthy moan, and more of her intoxicating scent followed the next flick of his tongue back and forth. Lost to the delight of pleasuring her, he suckled, lapped and licked until she thrashed her head, cried out in incoherent sobbed gasps and pushed her hips up in a plea for more.

The throb he’d tried to ignore ached deeper, his erection swelled harder as she ground herself against his face. The first spasm of her orgasm shook through him and he redoubled his efforts to take her over the edge. Her cry ripped through the pagoda. Moisture flooded from her as she snapped herself up against him. The tension ebbed away in long rhythmic contractions of her internal muscles. He slid his tongue into her to enjoy them and need for her surged. To hold back any longer was impossible.

Delight waited for him to unleash it.

He dragged off his jeans and she pushed her hips upward, showing him where he belonged, tilted them. With the first stroke, he buried his swollen flesh inside her.

“Yes, oh, yes. There!” Her nails raked his ass, encouraging him to go deeper.

She clamped tight around him, gripped him so hard, he couldn’t move for a few seconds. Thighs locked around his waist, she relaxed, and only then could he withdraw and plunge in again.

Her cries of pleasure matched his.

Damn, she was so responsive, beautifully so. As she answered each thrust, the tremors shaking through her told him she was with him all the way. Sweat wet his brow, and though he tried to hold back, he couldn’t control his reaction to her silky fluid pooling hot against his skin and her shriek of delight. Orgasm exploded through him. “Yes, you’re mine,” he groaned against her contorted lips.

Somehow, he managed to hold back the word Julia. He fell forward, pulses of his seed filling her as the rhythmic contractions inside her stroked him.

When finally their bodies both slowed, he lifted up from her, and running his finger over her smooth cheek, enjoyed the last of the movements as they faded. “I really can’t call you Miss Armstrong any longer. What does the S stand for?”

She looked dazed. Wonder filled him, that he’d created those dazzling stars in the depths of her black pupils.

“Sian,” she whispered.

All movement, even his breathing froze. Gooseflesh rippled his skin. “God’s gift, and mine, but you’ve been a long time getting here, my love.”

He slid his arms around her again, and crushed her frailty against him.