Читать книгу Caught in the Billionaire's Embrace / The Tycoon's Temporary Baby - Emily McKay - Страница 10

Marcus Fallon sat in his usual seat at his usual table drinking his usual nightcap in his usual club, thinking the most unusual thoughts. Or, at least, thoughts about a most unusual woman. A woman unlike any he’d ever met before. And not only because she shared his passion for, and opinions about, opera, either. Unfortunately, the moment the curtain had fallen on La Bohème, she’d hurried past him with a breathlessly uttered good night, scurried up the aisle ahead of everyone else in the box and he’d lost her in the crowd before he’d been able to say a word. He’d experienced a moment of whimsy as he’d scanned the stairs on his way out looking for a glass slipper, but even that small fairy-tale clue had eluded him. She was gone. Just like that. Almost as if she’d never been there at all. And he had no idea how to find her.

He lifted his Scotch to his lips again, filling his mouth with the smooth, smoky liquor, scanning the crowd here as if he were looking for her again. Strangely, he realized he was. But all he saw was the usual crowd milling around the dark-paneled, richly appointed, sumptuously decorated room. Bernie Stegman was, as usual, sitting in an oxblood leather wingback near the fireplace, chatting up Lucas Whidmore, who sat in an identical chair on the other side. Delores and Marion Hagemann were having a late dinner with Edith and Lawrence Byck at their usual table in the corner, the quartet framed by heavy velvet drapes the color of old money. Cynthia Harrison was doing her usual flirting with Stu, the usual Saturday bartender, who was sidestepping her advances with his usual aplomb. He would lose his job if he were caught canoodling with the patrons.

Thoughts of canoodling brought Marcus’s ruminations back to the mysterious lady in red. Not that that was entirely surprising, since the minute he’d seen her sitting opposite him at Palumbo’s, canoodling had been at the forefront of his brain. She’d simply been that stunning. What was really strange, though, was that once he’d started talking to her at the Lyric, canoodling had fallen by the wayside, and what he’d really wanted to do with her was talk more about opera. And not only because she shared his unconventional opinions, either. But because of the way she’d lit up while talking about it. As beautiful as she’d been, seated alone at her table in the restaurant, she’d become radiant during their conversation.

Radiant, he repeated to himself, frowning. Now there was a word he’d never used to describe a woman before. Then again, that could be because he’d seldom moved past the stage with a woman where he found her beautiful. Meaning he’d seldom reached a stage where he actually talked to one. Once he bedded a woman—and that usually came pretty early after meeting one—he lost interest. But that was because few women were worth knowing beyond the biblical sense.

Unbidden, a reproving voice erupted in his brain, taking him to task for his less-than-stellar commentary, but it wasn’t his own. It was Charlotte’s sandpaper rasp, made that way by too many cigarettes over the course of her eighty-two years. More than once over the past two decades since making her acquaintance, he’d let slip some politically incorrect comment about the opposite sex, only to have her haul him up by his metaphorical collar—and sometimes by his not-so-metaphorical collar—to set him straight.

God, he missed her.

He glanced at the pink cosmopolitan sitting opposite his single malt on the table, the glass dewy with condensation since it had been sitting there for so long. The rose, too, had begun to wilt, its petals blackening at their edges. Even the opera program looked limp and tattered already. All of them were at the end of their lives. Just as Charlotte had been the last time he’d sat at this table looking in the same direction.

She’d died two days after closing night at the Lyric. It had been seven months since her funeral, and Marcus still felt her loss keenly. He wondered, not for the first time, what happened after a soul left this world to enter the next. Was Charlotte still able to enjoy her occasional cosmo? Did they have performances of Verdi and Bizet where she was now? And was she able to enjoy the rare prime rib she’d loved to order at Palumbo’s?

Marcus hoped so. Charlotte deserved only the best, wherever she was. Because the best was what she had always given him.

A flash of red caught his eye, and Marcus glanced up. But it was only Emma Stegman, heading from the bar toward her father. Marcus scanned the room again for good measure but saw only more of the usual suspects. He knew everyone here, he thought. So why was he sitting alone? Hell, Stu the bartender wasn’t the only guy Cynthia Harrison had tried canoodling with. If Marcus wanted to, he could sidle up next to her and be headed to the Ambassador Hotel, which was adjacent to the club, in no time. And he sure wouldn’t lose his job for it. All he’d lose would be the empty feeling inside that had been with him since Charlotte’s death. Of course, the feeling would come back tomorrow, when he was alone again… .

He lifted his glass and downed what was left of his Scotch, then, for good measure, downed Charlotte’s cosmopolitan, too, in one long gulp. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he waited for the taste to leave his mouth—how had she stood those things?—then opened them again …

… to see a vision in red seated at a table on the other side of the room. He could not believe his good fortune. Seeing her one time had been chance. Seeing her twice had been lucky. Seeing her a third time …

That could only be fate.

Forgetting, for now, that he didn’t believe in such a thing, and before he risked losing her again, he immediately rose and crossed to where she was seated, signaling for Stu at the same time and gesturing toward her table. Without waiting to be invited, he pulled out the chair across from hers and seated himself.

She glanced up at his appearance, surprise etched on her features. But her lips curled into the faintest of smiles, reassuring him. That was another new experience for him. He’d never had to be reassured of anything. On the contrary, he’d taken everything in life for granted. That was what happened when you were born into one of the Gold Coast’s oldest and most illustrious families. You got everything you wanted, often without even having to ask for it. In fact, you even got the things you didn’t ask for. Usually handed to you on a silver platter. Sometimes literally.

“We have got to stop meeting like this.”

This time it was she, not Marcus, who spoke the words he had said to her at the Lyric.

“On the contrary,” he replied. “I’m beginning to like meeting you like this.”

A hint of pink bloomed on her cheeks at his remark, and delight wound through his belly at seeing her blush. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a woman blush. Not shyly, anyway. Not becomingly. Usually, if he made a woman blush, it was because he’d suggested they do something in the bedroom that most of society considered shameful. It was all the more reason, in his opinion, why it should be enjoyed.

But he was getting way ahead of himself. Anything in the bedroom with this woman was still, oh … hours away.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked. “I think you already have.”

He feigned surprise. “So I have. Then you’ll have to let me buy you a drink.”

She opened her mouth to reply and, for a moment, he feared she would decline his offer. Another new experience for Marcus. Not only fearing a woman would turn him down—since that almost never happened—but also feeling a knot of disappointment in his chest at the possibility. On those rare occasions when a woman did turn him down, he simply shrugged it off and moved to the next one. Because, inevitably, there was always a next one. With this woman, however …

Well, he couldn’t imagine a next one. Not even with Cynthia Harrison falling out of her dress less than ten feet away.

“All right,” she finally said, as Stu arrived at their table. She looked at the bartender. “I’ll have a glass of champagne, please.”

“Bring a bottle,” Marcus instructed before the bartender had a chance to get away. “The Perrier-Jouët Cuvée Belle Epoque. 2002.”

“Really, that’s not necessary… .” she began, her voice trailing off on the last word.

Deciding it was because she didn’t know how to address him—and because he wanted to give her his name so that he could get hers in return—he finished for her, “Marcus. Marcus—”

“Don’t tell me your last name.”

He halted before revealing it, less because she asked him not to than because he found her command curious.

“Why not?”

“Just don’t, that’s all.”

He started to give it to her anyway—never let it be said that Marcus Fallon ever did as he was told—but for some reason decided to honor her request. That was even stranger, since never let it be said that Marcus Fallon did the honorable thing, either. “All right.” He lifted his right hand for her to shake. “And you are …?”

She hesitated before taking his hand, then gingerly placed her own lightly against his. Her fingers were slender and delicate against his large, blunt ones and, unable to help himself, he closed his hand possessively over hers. Her skin was soft and warm, as creamy as ivory, and he found himself wondering if that was true of the rest of her. The blush on her cheeks deepened as he covered her hand with his, but she didn’t pull hers away.

His appeal for her name hung in the air between them without a response. “Della,” she told him finally. “My name is Della.”

No last name from her, either, then. Fine, he thought. He wouldn’t push it. But before the night was over, he’d know not only her last name, but everything else about her, too. Especially where each and every one of her erogenous zones were and what kind of erotic sounds she uttered whenever he located a new one.

Neither of them said anything more, only studied each other’s faces as their hands remained joined. She had amazing eyes. Pale, clear gray, the kind of eyes a man could lose himself in forever. The kind that hid nothing and said much. Honest eyes, he finally decided. Noble. The eyes of a person who would always do the right thing.

Damn.

Stu cleared his throat a little too obviously beside them, and she gave a soft tug to free her fingers. Reluctantly, he let them go. She lowered her hand to the table near his, however, resting it palm down on the white linen. So he did likewise, flattening his hand until his fingers almost—almost—touched hers.

“Will there be anything else, Mr.—?” Stu stopped before revealing Marcus’s last name, obviously having overheard the exchange. Quickly, he amended, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Marcus waved a hand airily in his direction, muttering that Stu should bring some kind of appetizer, too, but didn’t specify what. He honestly didn’t care about anything, other than the intriguing woman who sat across from him.

“Well,” he began, trying to jump-start the conversation again. “If you’re sitting here in the Windsor Club, you can’t be too new to Chicago. They have a waiting list to get in, and last I heard, it was two years, at least, before anyone added to it could even expect an application. Unless you’re here as a guest of another member?” That would be just his luck. That he’d meet a woman like this, and she’d be involved with someone else.

“I’m on my own,” she told him. Then, after a small hesitation, she added, “Tonight.”

Suggesting she wasn’t on her own on other nights, Marcus thought. For the first time, it occurred to him to glance down at her left hand. Not that a wedding ring had ever stopped him from seducing a woman before. But she sported only one ring, and it was on her right hand. The left bore no sign of ever having had one. So she wasn’t even engaged. At least not to a man who had the decency to buy her a ring.

“Or maybe,” he continued thoughtfully, “you’re a member of one of the Windsor’s original charter families who earn and keep their membership by a simple accident of birth.” He grinned. “Like me. As many times as they’ve tried to throw me out of this place, they can’t.”

She grinned back. “And why on earth would they throw out a paragon of formality and decency like you?”

His eyebrows shot up at that. “You really are new in town if no one’s warned you about me yet. That’s usually the first thing they tell beautiful young socialites. In fact, ninety percent of the tourist brochures for the city say something like, ‘Welcome to Chicago. While you’re here, be sure to visit Navy Pier, the Hancock Tower, the Field Museum and the Shedd Aquarium. And whatever you do, stay away from Marcus—” Again he halted before saying his last name. “Well, stay away from Marcus-Whose-Last-Name-You-Don’t-Want-To-Know. That guy’s nothing but trouble.'”

She laughed at that. She had a really great laugh. Uninhibited, unrestrained, genuinely happy. “And what do the other ten percent of the travel brochures say?”

“Well, those would be the ones they give out to conventioneers looking for a good time while they’re away from the ball and chain. Those are the ones that list all the, ah, less seemly places in town.” He smiled again. “I’m actually featured very prominently in those. Not by name, mind you, but …” He shrugged. “Those damned photographers don’t care who they take pictures of.”

She laughed again, stirring something warm and fizzy inside Marcus unlike anything he’d ever felt before. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “I find it hard to jibe The Bartered Bride with bump and grind.”

“There’s more to me than opera, you know.” He met her gaze levelly. “A lot more.”

The blush blossomed in her cheeks again, making him chuckle more softly. She was saved from having to respond to his comment, however, when Stu arrived with their champagne and a tray of fruit and cheese. The bartender went a little overboard with the presentation and opening of the bottle, but it was probably because he, too, recognized that Della—yes, Marcus did like that name—wasn’t a usual customer. In fact, there was nothing usual about her. She was, in a word, extraordinary.

After receiving approval for the champagne, Stu poured a glass for each of them. As he did, Marcus told Della, “I am notorious in this town. Ask anyone.”

She turned to the bartender, who was nestling the champagne in a silver bucket of ice. “Is he really notorious?” she asked.

The bartender glanced first at Marcus, who nodded imperceptibly to let Stu know his tip wouldn’t be compromised by his honesty, then at Della. “Oh, yes, ma’am. And not just in Chicago. He makes the society pages all over the country, wherever he goes, and he’s a regular feature on a lot of those celebrity websites. If you’re seen with him, it’s a good bet you’ll wind up there yourself. He’s infamous.”

Della turned to Marcus, her eyes no longer full of laughter, but now brimming with something akin to … fear? Oh, surely not. What would she have to be afraid of?

“Is that true?” she asked.

Still puzzled by her reaction, but not wanting to lie to her—especially since it would be easy enough for her to find out with a simple internet search—he told her, “I’m afraid so.”

Her lips parted fractionally, and her expression became almost panicked. Deciding she must be feigning fear as a joke, he played along, telling her, “Don’t worry. They never let riffraff like the paparazzi into the club.

You’re perfectly safe with me here. No one will see you with me.”

It occurred to him as he said it that that was exactly what she feared—being seen with him. Not just by the paparazzi, but by some individual in particular. An individual who might not like seeing her out with Marcus. Or anyone else, for that matter.

She did have that look about her, he decided as he considered her again. Pampered, well tended to, cared for—at least on the surface. The kind of woman who made her way in the world by making herself available to men who could afford her. There were still a surprising number of such women in society, even in this day and age when a woman shouldn’t have to rely on her sexuality to make her way in the world. Beautiful, elegant, reserved, they tended to be. At least on the surface.

Not that he’d ever seen Della among such women in the level of society in which he traveled. That only fueled his suspicion that she was merely visiting the city. Dammit.

It took a moment for her expression to clear, but she finally emitted a single—albeit a tad humorless—chuckle. “Of course,” she said. “I mean … I knew that. I was only kidding.”

He nodded, but there was a part of him that wasn’t quite convinced. Maybe she really was attached to someone else. Maybe she even belonged to that someone. Maybe that someone wouldn’t be too happy about her being here tonight alone. Or anywhere alone. Maybe that someone would be even more unhappy to find her with another man. Maybe she really was afraid her photo would show up somewhere with Marcus at her side, and she’d be in big, big trouble with that someone.

Just who was she, this mysterious lady in red? And why did Marcus want so badly to find out?

In an effort to dispel the odd tension that had erupted between them, he lifted his glass of champagne and said, softly, “Cheers.”

There was another small hesitation on her part before, she, too, lifted her glass. “Cheers,” she echoed even more softly.

The toast didn’t put an end to the frisson of uneasiness that still hovered over the table, but it did put a bit of the bloom back in her cheeks. It was enough, he decided. For now.

But certainly not forever.

Della gazed at the man seated across the table from her as she sipped her champagne, and she wondered exactly when the evening had jumped the track and started screeching headlong into a dark, scary tunnel. One minute, she’d been about to embark on the last leg of her evening by enjoying a final glass of champagne at Chicago’s celebrated Windsor Club—which she’d gotten into only by bribing the doorman with another small fortune—and the next minute, she’d found herself gazing once again into the gold-flecked, chocolate-brown eyes that had so intrigued her at the opera.

Marcus. His name fit him. Stoic and classic, commanding and uncompromising. How strange that she should run into him at every destination she’d visited tonight. Then again, she’d gone out of her way to choose destinations that were magnets for the rich and powerful, and he certainly fit that bill. Of course, now she was learning he was part of that other adjective that went along with rich—famous—and that was a condition she most definitely had to avoid.

So what was she afraid of? He was right. There was no one in the club who didn’t belong here. Other than herself, she meant. Nobody had even seemed to notice the two of them. Not to mention it was late and, even if it was Saturday, ninety percent of the city’s population had gone home. There was snow in the forecast for later, even if it wasn’t anything a city like Chicago couldn’t handle. Most people were probably hunkered down in their living rooms and bedrooms, having stocked up on provisions earlier, and were looking forward to a Sunday being snowed in with nothing to do.

Della wished she could enjoy something like that, but she felt as though she’d been snowed in with nothing to do for the past eleven months. At least when she wasn’t at Geoffrey’s beck and call.

But tonight that wasn’t the case. Tonight she was having fun. She should look at the opportunity to share the last couple of hours of her celebration with a man like Marcus as the icing on her birthday cake.

“So …” she began, trying to recapture the flirtatiousness of their earlier exchange. Still trying to figure out when, exactly, she’d decided to return his flirtations. “What kinds of things have you done to make yourself so notorious?”

He savored another sip of his champagne, then placed the glass on the table between them. But instead of releasing it, he dragged his fingers up over the stem and along the bowl of the flute, then up farther along the elegant line of its sides. Della found herself mesmerized by the voyage of those fingers, especially when he began to idly trace the rim with the pad of his middle finger. Around and around it went, slowly, slowly … oh, so slowly … until a coil of heat began to unwrap in her belly and purl into parts beyond.

She found herself wondering what it would be like to have him drawing idle circles like that elsewhere, someplace like, oh … she didn’t know. Herself maybe. Along her shoulder, perhaps. Or down her thigh. Touching her in other places, too—places where such caresses might drive her to the brink of madness.

Her eyes fluttered closed as the thought formed in her brain, as if by not watching what he was doing, she might better dispel the visions dancing around in her head. But closing her eyes only made those images more vivid. More earthy. More erotic. More … oh. So much more more. She snapped her eyes open again in an effort to squash the visions completely. But that left her looking at Marcus, who was gazing at her with faint amusement, as if he’d seen where her attention had settled and knew exactly what she was thinking about.

As he studied her, he stilled his finger on the rim of the glass and settled his index finger beside it. Della watched helplessly as he scissored them along the rim, first opening, then closing, then opening again. With great deliberation, he curled them into the glass until they touched the top of the champagne, then he dampened each finger with the effervescent wine. Then he carefully pulled them out and lifted them to her lips, brushing lightly over her mouth with the dew of champagne.

Heat swamped her, making her stomach simmer, her breasts tingle and her heart rate quadruple, and dampening her between her legs. Without even thinking about what she was doing, she parted her lips enough to allow him to tuck one finger inside. She tasted the champagne then, along with the faint essence of Marcus. And Marcus was, by far, the most intoxicating.

Quickly, she drew her head back and licked the remnants of his touch from her lips. Not that that did anything to quell her arousal. What had come over her? How could she be this attracted to a man this quickly? She knew almost nothing about him, save his name and the fact that he loved opera and good champagne and had bought a rose for someone earlier in the evening who—

The rose. How could she have forgotten about that? She might very well be sitting here enjoying the advances of a married man! Or, at the very least, one who belonged to someone else. And the last thing she wanted to be was part of a triangle.

Where was the rose now? Had he thrown it resentfully into the trash or pressed it between the pages of the neglected opera program as a keepsake? Involuntarily, she scanned the other tables in the club until she saw an empty one not far away with a rose and opera program lying atop it. And another martini glass—though this time it was empty. Had the woman he was expecting finally caught up with him? Had he only moments ago been sharing a moment like this with someone else? Could he really be that big a heel?

“Who were you expecting tonight?”

The question was out of her mouth before Della even realized it had formed in her brain. It obviously surprised Marcus as much as it had her, because his dark eyebrows shot up again.

“No one,” he told her. And then, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, he added, “Not even you. I could never have anticipated someone like you.”

“But the rose … The pink drink …”

He turned to follow the track of her gaze, saw the table where he must have been sitting when she came in. His shoulders drooped a little, and his head dipped forward, as if in defeat. Or perhaps melancholy? When he looked at her, the shadows she’d noted before were back in his eyes. Definitely the latter.

“I did buy the rose and order the drink for someone else,” he said. “And yes, she was someone special.”

“Was?” Della echoed. “Then you and she aren’t …”

“What?”

“Together?”

His expression revealed nothing of what he might be feeling or thinking. “No.”

She wanted to ask more about the woman, but something in his demeanor told her not to. It was none of her business, she reminded herself. It was bad enough she’d brought up memories for him that clearly weren’t happy. Whoever the woman was, it was obvious she wasn’t a part of his life anymore. Even if it was likewise obvious that he still wanted her to be.

And why did that realization prick her insides so much? Della wouldn’t even see Marcus again after tonight. It didn’t matter if he cared deeply for someone else, and the less she knew about him, the better. That way, he would be easier to forget.

Even if he was the kind of man a woman never forgot.

In spite of her relinquishing the subject, he added, “I knew she wouldn’t be coming tonight, but it felt strange not to buy the rose and order her a drink the way I always did before. She always ran late,” he added parenthetically and, Della couldn’t help but note, affectionately. “It felt almost as if I were betraying her somehow not ordering for her, when really she was the one who—” He halted abruptly and met Della’s gaze again. But now he didn’t look quite so grim. “An uncharacteristic bout of sentimentality on my part, I guess. But no, Della. I’m not with anyone.” He hesitated a telling moment before asking, “Are you?”

Well, now, there was a loaded question if ever there was one. Della wasn’t with anyone—not the way Marcus meant it, anyway. She hadn’t been with anyone that way for nearly a year. And that one had been someone she never should have been with in the first place. Not just because of the sort of man Egan Collingwood turned out to be, either. But Della was indeed with someone—in a different way. She was with Geoffrey. For now, anyway. And as long as she was with Geoffrey, there was no way she could be with anyone else.

She didn’t want to tell Marcus that, though, so she only lifted her champagne to her lips for another sip. When he continued to study her in that inquisitive way, she enjoyed another sip. And another. And another. Until—would you look at that?—the glass was completely empty. The moment she set it on the table, however, Marcus poured her a refill, allowing the champagne to almost reach to the brim before lowering the bottle.

She grinned at the ridiculously full glass. “Marcus, are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Yes,” he replied immediately.

His frankness surprised her, and she laughed. Honestly, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much in one evening. Even before Egan, she hadn’t been so prone to jollity. She’d never even used a word like jollity before.

“Well, it won’t work,” she said, even as she carefully lifted the glass to her mouth. “I have a remarkable metabolism.”

Now his smile turned faintly predatory. “I’m counting on that, actually.”

Yikes.

Well, the joke was on him. Because Mr. Marcus Notorious might think he had the evening mapped out with the quickest route from chance dinner meeting to white-hot marathon of sex, but there was no way that was going to happen. Della had to have her rented clothes back tomorrow when Talk of the Town opened at noon or she’d lose her deposit. Even the promise of a white-hot marathon of sex with a maddeningly irresistible guy wasn’t going to keep her from forgetting that.

She looked at Marcus, at his smoldering eyes and sizzling grin. At the brutally strong jaw and ruthless cheekbones. As if trying to counter the ruggedness of his features, an unruly lock of dark hair had tumbled carelessly over his forehead, begging for the gentling of a woman’s fingers.

Well. Probably that wasn’t going to keep her from getting her deposit. Hmm. Actually, that was kind of a tough call …

But then, Della couldn’t spend the night doing anything anywhere, anyway. As it was, if Geoffrey called the house tonight and she didn’t answer, he’d be hopping mad. Of course, he’d only have to call her on her cell phone to know she was okay, but he’d be furious that she wasn’t cloistered where she was supposed to be. She’d been lucky enough so far that he hadn’t ever called the house when she’d snuck out on those handful of occasions when she became bored to the point of lunacy. But she wasn’t sure how much longer her luck would hold. If Geoffrey ever got wind of her excursions, he’d want to wring her neck. Then he’d become even more determined to keep her hidden.

Still looking at Marcus, but trying not to think about the way he was making her feel, she leaned back in her chair and said, “So you get women drunk and then take advantage of them. Now I know the kinds of things you’ve done to make yourself so notorious.”

“Oh, I never have to get women drunk to take advantage, Della,” he said with complete confidence and without an ounce of arrogance. “In fact, I never have to take advantage.”

She had no doubt that was true. She’d just met the man, and she was already having thoughts about him and inclinations toward him she shouldn’t be having. Too many thoughts. And way too many inclinations.

“Then what does make you so notorious?”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table as he invaded her space, effectively erasing what meager distance she’d put between them. “Where do I begin?” he asked. “And, more important, do you have all night?”

Double yikes.

Having no idea what to say to that, she lifted her champagne for another idle sip … only to enjoy a healthy quaff instead. Well, it was very good. And she was starting to feel a lovely little buzz that was buffing the rough edges off … oh, everything.

As if he realized the turn her thoughts had taken, Marcus pushed his hand across the table until his fingertips were touching hers. A spark shot through Della, even at that simple, innocent touch. And when his hand crept up over hers, that spark leaped into a flame.

“Because if you do have all night,” he added, “I’d be more than happy to give you a very thorough illustration.”

Triple yikes. And another quaff, for good measure.

Ah, that was better. Now, what was it she had been about to say? Something about needing to get home because it was approaching midnight and, any minute now, she was going to turn into a bumpkin. Um, she meant pumpkin. Not that that was much better.

She searched for something to say that would extricate her from her predicament, but no words came. Probably because no ideas came. And probably no ideas came because they were all being crowded out by the visions featuring her and Marcus that kept jumping to the forefront of her brain. He really was incredibly sexy. And it had been such a long time since she’d been with anyone who turned her on the way he did. And it would probably be even longer before she found someone she wanted to be with again. She had no idea what would happen once Geoffrey was done with her. All she had that was certain was right now. This place. This moment. This man. This sexy, notorious, willing man. This man she should in no way allow herself to succumb to. This man who would haunt her for the rest of her life.

This man who, for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to leave quite yet …