Читать книгу Sins of Omission - Fern Michaels - Страница 10

Mickey returned home after the shroud of evening had fallen. She came in like a whirlwind, chattering easily about her day. “Beastly, darlings, the trip was beastly, but I had to do it. Now my time is yours for the next few days. More rest for you today, but tomorrow I will begin your French lessons. We will play chess and bridge, and if you don’t know how to play, I am here to teach you. You, in turn, will teach me to play poker and roll the dice. I have always wanted to learn. Now I wish to get out of these heavy clothes and into something more comfortable. I will be back almost before I am gone and we’ll have a spicy drink before the fire. You will tell me what you did today and I will tell you what I did.” Seconds later she was out of the room, her perfume lingering behind her as always.

For nine days, each evening was the same as the one before. On the tenth, Reuben decided he was annoyed. Not by so much as a look or touch did Mickey let her intentions be known. Somehow he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t measuring up, that somewhere along the way he’d become a disappointment to his benefactress. He wished he knew when and where she had decided that she didn’t want him after all so he could go back and try to analyze it. Madame Mickey was a beautiful, sensuous woman, generous of heart and sweet of nature. And he wanted her.

Mickey watched the expression in Reuben’s eyes shift from anger to annoyance and knew the time was almost right. She had paid close attention to his every gesture. After all, she was an expert in the art of seduction. But he still wasn’t ready. Soon, though. Now the game was really on.

Although the nights proved torturous for Reuben, the days following Mickey’s return from Marseilles were comfortable and filled with contentment. Both Reuben and Daniel were on the road to recovery—Mickey saw to that. Because Daniel’s eyes were very much improved, she allowed him to read while it was fully daylight. At night, knowing the lamplight would strain his eyes, she forbade him even to think of burying his nose in a book. For his part, Reuben followed all the rules of her ministrations as an example to Daniel. To fill their free time, Mickey provided other forms of entertainment: word games, music, even a lesson in French cooking.

Both Reuben and Daniel found themselves falling into Mickey’s routine, yet always upon rising, Reuben would go to the long, mullioned windows of his bedroom and stare out at the countryside, finding it difficult to believe that not very far to the north the Germans were preparing for the great offensive against the American forces. Through his window, even on the dreariest days of fall, the land was sweetly undisturbed, the air crisp and clear and waiting for the promise of sunshine. At the front, he knew, the land was disemboweled by artillery, the air thick with the smell of gunfire and powder and the stench of the trenches. Though the same sun would shine on the battle zone, it would lack the golden warmth and would hold no promise.

The threesome made it a point to breakfast together, munching their way through crisp toast made from homemade bread fresh from the ovens and heartily spread with luscious jams and jellies put up from fruits grown on the estate, and lightening their coffee with fresh dairy cream. Coffee, almost impossible to get, was brewed with chicory and one of Mickey’s secret ingredients. If coffee was unavailable, they would drink chocolate from the generous supply Mickey had set aside for herself when she knew war in her homeland was imminent.

After breakfast they would carry their cups into the paneled library. There, Reuben and Mickey would take turns reading aloud to Daniel, who soaked up each work like a sponge. “He is insatiable,” Mickey grumbled good-naturedly on several occasions. “He will need proper tutoring soon.” When the room grew thick with smoke they moved to the parlor for their French lessons.

This was Reuben’s favorite room, despite the feminine furnishings and spindly-legged tables. Here Mickey was reflected in each object that had been chosen to grace the mantel or armoires and etageres. Seashells from the French Riviera, a coin collection under glass, her precious Monet and Renoir. And on the far wall, where the fall sun found itself rivaled for brilliance, was a Van Gogh. A field of sunflowers, yellow and orange and deep green shadows for contrast. Little crystal dishes, vast vases of flowers, thick peach-colored carpeting bordered with a pattern of grape leaves and dark purple fruit. The mantelpiece was Italian marble, the hearth wide and deep, holding logs thicker than Reuben’s leg and almost as long. Gilt-edged mirrors, venetian blinds slanted to catch the last ray of sunshine, and satin draperies trimmed with golden fringe. And always the colors were soft, muted, each pattern cleverly chosen to blend into the next.

Madame Mickey’s wardrobe seemed to be endless. Unlike the sleek, tailored clothing she had always worn on her trips to the clinics and hospitals, here Reuben noticed that she preferred simpler dresses in soft, elegant colors that brought out the tawny freshness of her unadorned skin and the golden lights in her chestnut hair. Chanel was a young designer with whom Mickey was acquainted in Paris. The styles were revolutionary, and Mickey wore them to perfection.

“Her name is Gabrielle, but everyone knows her as Coco,” Mickey explained about her friend, “and one day she will be famous, I promise you. She is what the fashion world awaits. This is a world in which women will take their place, Reuben. There will be little room for snug hobbled skins and painful boned corsets. Ease of dress, that is the secret of Coco’s designs. Away with corsets, away with them forever. Long, simple lines; supple, easy fabrics and knits. Trousers that have slim legs and flare at the bottoms, somewhat like the ones sailors wear. Bell bottoms, I believe they’re called. Short jackets, jersey knits, and I have seen her wear a coat that she patterned after General Black Jack Pershing’s. A trench coat, it is called. Horrible name, wonderful coat. Many elements of her designs are borrowed from a man’s haberdashery.”

During their French lessons, Reuben and Daniel found Mickey to be a hard taskmaster. Often she would tap their knuckles like an old schoolmarm. “Someday you will thank me for this,” she kept saying over and over. Reuben doubted it; Daniel just smiled.

It was obvious from the beginning that Daniel had a greater aptitude for learning a foreign language then Reuben. Daniel worked diligently on the verbs and syntax, and late at night, after Mickey retired, he would quiz Reuben so he, too, could have his lesson prepared for the following morning. Somewhere along the way he’d become attuned to Reuben’s feelings, and he knew Reuben hated to be mocked or made to appear foolish. Mickey’s gentle gibing was embarrassing to him. Twice he’d blustered that he didn’t want to learn a stupid, damn flowery language and stomped out of the room in frustration. Unperturbed, Mickey had kept on with the lesson. She never referred to Reuben’s outburst and had smiled warmly, when, after his temper had cooled, he had returned.

After an hour in their respective rooms, where Reuben and Daniel would dose their eyes and apply compresses, lunch would be served, usually a meal of thick, hearty sandwiches and robust soup. If weather allowed, they would then embark on their daily walk, which covered several miles and always ended at the stables, where Mickey would treat her horses with sugar lumps and green apples stored from the autumn before.

“All gentlemen ride,” Mickey declared. “It is an art, and I will teach you when your health returns. One must be fit to control an animal.” Then she’d looked at Reuben and said, “One day, when you are rich and powerful, you will have a country estate and invite others who are rich and powerful. They will all know how to ride. It will be expected of you. Do you understand, chéri?” Reuben nodded. Then she fixed her gaze on Daniel. “And you, my learned friend, will be one of those rich and powerful people who visit Reuben. You will be the most famous lawyer. I feel this,” she said dramatically, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tea and cakes would be waiting in the library when they returned to the château. After that, they spent an hour on the finer points of bridge and chess. When both were over, after they’d discussed their strategies and errors, Mickey handed out paper and pens and gave a test on what they’d learned during the day. Reuben hated the tests, thinking them juvenile, but he complied. Daniel, on the other hand, loved playing school and always received a beaming smile from Mickey.

The ninety minutes before dinner were allotted to bathing and choosing the proper attire. Casual suits and dinner jackets had appeared in each of their rooms one day, along with shoes, ties, shirts, belts, socks, and underwear. An old man from the village arrived the day after the clothing did, equipped with tape measure and pins to tailor each article of clothing to perfection.

Dinner, which was always bountiful, was for eating but also for learning. Which fork, which knife, which glass for which wine; how to open a napkin and how to fold it when finished. They learned how to seat a lady and to help her from the table. Mickey educated their palates to the use of wines and spirits, a skill at which Reuben showed himself to be adept. Mickey said it was yet another indication that he would be a success. If there was anything Daniel disliked, it was lessons in breeding and etiquette, although at Mickey’s rebukes he would merely flush. “I’ll make gentlemen out of you if it’s the last thing I ever do,” she declared with determination.

Coffee and brandy followed dinner, with talk of the war, what was happening in America, and books. Like Daniel, Mickey was a voracious reader. Their conversations were lively and spirited and usually lasted several hours.

Finally Mickey would peck each of them lightly on both cheeks, saying, “Well done,” then wave cheerily and retire upstairs to her rooms.

And always Reuben didn’t know if he was relieved or angry at her sisterly show of affection. When he was alone he admitted that he wanted more. On the third day of his stay he’d decided that Mickey was beautiful. Only at night in his dreams did he allow himself to lust after her. When he woke, frustrated and puzzled, he would punch his fists into the pillows and groan angrily. Why was she torturing him like this? If it was a game, didn’t she know he would be a willing player? But there couldn’t be a game until both players were in agreement and rules set down. Rules…Who makes the first move? Certainly not him; he was a guest. Of course, she was a woman, and as a rule women wanted to be asked, or so he remembered old George saying, but then, most of everything George had said had turned out to be just so much manure.

Worst of all, he found himself staring at her all the time now, imagining all kinds of wonderful things: how her lips would feel on his, how silky her skin would be, how she’d look lying naked beside him, how she’d taste. It was almost beyond his imagination all the wonderful things an experienced woman like Mickey could do to him. Once when they were walking he thought his head would blow off in excitement when he pictured himself settling urgently between her legs. George had said it was a feeling that had no equal. Mickey had looked at him, looked at him as though she knew what he was thinking. Another time, while they were playing chess, he’d let her capture his knight because he was watching as her pink tongue moistened her lips in concentration on the game. She’d looked fully aware of his thoughts then, too.

It was a game, Reuben knew it in his gut. Who would weaken first? By God, he’d wait her out no matter how long it took. With that decision made, he set a precedent that he was to follow for the rest of his life: Never make the first move. Watch your adversary and then go in for the kill, but only after that adversary has made the first move. The only thing that confused Reuben was that Mickey wasn’t exactly an adversary. He also decided it didn’t really matter how long he’d have to wait—because although she had begun the game, when it ended, he’d be the winner. In all games there was a winner and a loser. He would never, no matter what he’d have to do, be a loser.

After that, Reuben felt better. Having sorted it all out in his mind, he became an active player. When he walked behind Mickey’s chair, he’d let his fingers trail along the back of her neck. When sitting beside her at the bridge table, he’d let his knee touch hers ever so slightly, and he wasn’t quick to draw away—nor was she. Over the candlelight dinners he’d stare at her bosom and give her the sensuous smile he’d practiced in front of the mirror in his room. He’d watch her draw in her breath before he turned away. Another time he’d alluded to his sexual prowess, with Daniel egging him on. He’d seen a spark of anger in her eyes and grinned.

Just last evening when she’d come to peck him on the cheek, he’d turned swiftly so her lips met his. Her eyes had widened and she was the first to turn away, but not before Reuben had seen her body shudder. Hold out the bait and then yank it back was one choice piece of advice from George that seemed to be working. Fine for George to say, but his old buddy hadn’t given any advice on how to get her to actually bite. Probably because it was assumed by all of them that Mickey herself would initiate everything from the beginning. Jesus, how wrong they’d all been.

“Today I feel we are like the Three Musketeers. Do either of you feel like that?” Mickey asked. They had been out walking for most of the afternoon in the crisp November air.

“When you are truly well,” she continued, speaking to both her companions with a broad smile, “we will motor to Gascony. D’Artagnan and his brave musketeers, even Cyrano de Bergerac, came from Gascony. You see, every day we learn something.” She looked directly at Reuben when she spoke. Instead of answering her, he gave her his practiced smile. Her eyes closed sleepily, then she reached for a flower and placed it gently between her breasts.

Daniel was oblivious to the byplay as he windmilled his arms. His cast had recently been taken off; movement was no longer limited. Now he could bathe himself and wet his entire body. The world he was living in felt good.

Mickey stepped between the two of them and linked arms. They literally danced the next few yards. When they stopped, on the crest of a hill above a small village, they could hear shouting and singing.

“Mon Dieu, what in the world is that racket?” Mickey cried.

“Looks like there’s a parade, or else they are having a party,” Daniel said, laughing.

The three of them looked at one another in wonder. Could it be? Finally?

“Hurry, darlings, we must see what this is all about.”

Daniel and Reuben took Mickey’s hands and ran down the hill, watching and listening to the Frenchmen as they waved their arms about, speaking rapidly. Some were singing while others laughed and slapped one another on the back.

It was November 11, 1918, and the Armistice had just been signed.

“We must celebrate!” Mickey exclaimed.

“It’s over, Daniel,” Reuben said quietly. “Our men made the difference. I feel kind of proud, don’t you?”

“Damn right.” He wiped his eyes, and Reuben realized his own were misty. “We were the lucky ones, Reuben.”

“Yes,” Reuben said, touching his friend’s shoulder. Then he grinned. “I agree with Mickey! We need a celebration!”

The threesome spent the next few hours drinking several bottles of the finest champagne Mickey’s wine cellar afforded. The celebration lasted through dinner and into the early evening.

Mickey felt like a young girl, sharing secrets of her youth while the young men listened and spoke of theirs. The conversation inevitably brought them through myriad experiences that elicited both laughter and sometimes tears; their glasses were never empty. When she had listened to Daniel, tipsy and rambling, a lopsided grin on his face and hope in his eyes, tell again of his dream of becoming a lawyer, Mickey decided to begin now to help him realize his goal. Mentally she calculated what it would take over the next few months to put this person into action and determined to make arrangements immediately.

When she watched and listened to Reuben, she was aware that no matter how much he drank, or talked, or listened, a part of him was sitting beside her, tasting her, wanting her.

The atmosphere in the room was jubilant and warmly familial as they finished the last bottle of champagne. Mickey was the first to rise. Hugging them, and kissing them both on each cheek, she wished them a good night’s sleep, first Daniel, and then Reuben. Daniel’s kisses were wet and childlike and made her smile. Reuben’s sent a shiver down her spine. It was difficult not to remain face-to-face with him and say, Yes. I want you now—more than ever. I want to taste you until I have my fill and then taste you again. His eyes burned into her even as she ascended the staircase. She knew he had followed deliberately for just that purpose. But when she looked back at him, she couldn’t fathom what was behind that smoldering gaze.

It was odd—she’d been having the strangest feelings the past few days. One minute she wanted to drag the young American upstairs to her bed and the next she wanted to curl up next to him with her head on his shoulder. It was unbearable when he was out of her sight. And she hadn’t been joking when she’d referred to the three of them as the Three Musketeers. Amour. Was it possible she was falling in love with the virile, handsome young American? How could she be sure, never having been in love before, not with her husband and certainly not with any of her amants.

Perhaps she was beginning to fall in love. In matters of the heart, when one partner loved more than the other, that one, she knew, would eventually hurt to the soul. Did she want that? Did she want to experience that kind of pain?

And what about Reuben? All she had to do was crook her finger and he’d come like a lamb. A niggling voice within urged her to send both young men back to America. Before it’s too late, the voice warned. “No!” she cried fiercely. But what if the young man becomes so enamored of you he, too, falls in love? You will grow old before him. Do you wish to tie yourself to a gigolo? That’s what he’ll become if you keep him here. You’ll never know if he truly loves you or merely the easy life your money can provide. Send him home! “He’s young,” Mickey whispered, “but old enough to make his own decisions. If he wanted to go home, he’d have said something.”

Mickey turned off the lamps. The near darkness felt good. One could hide in the darkness of a room or in the darkness of one’s mind. One could hide from the world in any number of ways, and that world would pass by.

Now she was feeling sorry for herself. In the whole of her life she’d never felt this way. Go after him, take what you want. Give what you want, but never give all of yourself. One of her many lovers had told her that once: Never give all of yourself, for when it’s time to walk away, there will be no reserve to carry you through. She smiled wickedly. All right, Reuben Tarz, you shall have 90 percent of me. Right now!

Her room was softly lit, the bed turned down, her silky white nightgown folded neatly on her pillow.

Fingers moving feverishly in their haste, she ripped at her clothes. The silky nightgown rustled softly as it fell about her. With lightning-quick motions she removed what little makeup remained, washed her face, and applied a light dusting of powder. She washed her mouth as well as her hands to rid herself of the smell of nicotine and wine. A light spritz of her favorite perfume and she was finished.

The moonlight streamed through the windows, creating silver shadows everywhere. The room looked exquisite, she decided, perfect for making love. Impatiently she waited until all was quiet outside her door. Then, feeling as giddy as a schoolgirl, she stepped down the hall to Reuben’s room. Softly she opened the door. His room was also bathed in moonlight; it fell across his bed in a giant beam. It seemed to Mickey that the young American glowed in the near darkness. Fleetingly she wondered if it was a sign of something. In the end she simply didn’t care.

Kneeling by his bed, she whispered in his ear, her fingers trailing gently the length of his cheek and down his neck. The coverlet had slipped from his neck. How broad his chest was, how muscular his arms. How very, very young.

“Come, chéri,” she whispered.

Reuben woke, instantly aware of her presence. He lay quietly, giving himself up to her touch and her scent. He shuddered and felt her smile in the moonlight.

“Come with me now, to my room.”

Reuben swung his legs over the side of the bed, his hands clutching the edge of the plump mattress. Mickey dropped her head into his lap, and he shuddered. She was whispering again as her tongue did strange things to him, things he never wanted to stop. He drew in his breath, expelling it in a loud hiss. With all the force he could muster, he grasped her shoulders and pushed her backward. Heedless now, he stood in his nakedness, staring down at her. At last he reached for her and drew her up and close. With one fluid motion he enfolded her into his arms and in seconds they were both in bed.

Eager to be close to him, Mickey knew no shame. Her fingers tore at her gown as she urged him with her hushed whispers and moist kisses to remove it. Oh, to be finally naked against him, to teach him her special secrets!

His mouth sought hers, his arms locked her in a hard embrace. Wave after wave of desire coursed through her as she answered his kisses and inspired his caresses. Her tongue darted into the warm recesses of his mouth; her arms wound around him, making him her prisoner. Soft hands caressed and stroked her back, smoothing along the curve of her waist to the fullness of her hips and bottom, pressing her close to her desire. Her breasts were taut and full beneath his hands. Soft moans escaped her parted lips as he aroused her to the heights of her passion. He devoured her with his eyes, covered her with his lips, igniting her sensuality with teasing touches of his tongue against her fiery skin. His fingertips grazed the sleekness of her inner thighs, and, helpless, she felt her body arch against his hand with a will of its own, to aid in his explorations.

His mouth became part of her own, and she heard her heart beat in wild and rapid rhythms. They strained toward each other, imprisoned by the designs of yearning, caught in an embrace that ascended the obstacles of the flesh and strove to join breath and blood, body and spirit.

Gently, in the darkened room, he laid her back against the pillows, leaning over her, nuzzling her neck, inhaling the heady fragrance that was hers alone. Blazing a trail from her throat, his lips covered her unguarded breast, and she shivered with exquisite anticipation. Gradually she became unaware of her surroundings, oblivious to time and place; she knew only that her body was reacting to this man, pleasure radiating outward from some hidden depth within her. She allowed herself to be transported by it, incapable of stopping the forward thrust of his desires, spinning out of time and space into the soft consuming mists of her sensuality.

Her emotions careened and clashed, grew confused and wild, her perceptions thrumming and beating wherever he touched her. And when he moved away from her she felt alone. When he returned she was whole again, wanting and needing, wanting to be needed in return. The feverish heat of his skin seemed to singe her fingers as she traced inquisitive patterns over his arms and back and down over his sleek, muscular thighs.

Reuben had never touched a woman this way, but somehow he knew he could touch a thousand women and none would feel the same to him as this one. None could have the unexpectedly smooth skin that tantalized his fingers and tempted him to seek more secret places.

Suddenly the room grew dark, jealously veiling the sight of him from her eyes. She wanted to see him, to know him, behold the places her fingers yearned to find and her lips hungered to kiss. “The lamp,” she whispered, hardly daring to make a sound, afraid to break the spell. She barely recognized her voice; it sounded husky, throaty, sensuous, even to her own ears. “I want to see you,” she whispered brazenly. “I want to know you, like this…naked. All of you.” It was a plea, a demand, exciting him with its fervor, arousing his desires for her to a fever pitch.

Soft, golden light flooded the room, and he stood there before her, just out of reach. Her gaze covered him, sizzling and searing, lingering at the swell of his manhood and grazing over his flat, hard stomach. Dark patterns of lustrous curling hair molded his form into planes and valleys, covering his chest and narrowing to a thin, elongated arrow that pointed below. Thighs thick with muscle supported him, the scars of his wound breaking her heart. His torso tapered and broadened again for the width of his chest. Her arms stretched out for him, beckoning him to her.

He was filled with an exhilarating power…the power that only a woman can give a man when she reveals her desire for him, welcoming him into her embrace, giving as well as taking, trusting him to carry her to the highest star, where passion is food for the gods and satisfaction is its own reward.

In the lamplight he gazed down at her, possessing her, held in the spell of the moment, watching her eyes travel the length of his body. Her lips parted, full and ripe, revealing the pink tip of her tongue as she moistened them. She was leaning back against the pillows, one knee bent, hiding her most secret place from his sight. Breasts proud, their coral tips erect, invited his hands and his lips. When he reached out to touch her, an answering voluptuous stretch revealed her womanhood where a fine feathering of downy hair caught the light, gilding her body in a soft, shimmering glow. She was beautiful, this lioness with the hungry eyes, beautiful and desirable, setting his pulses pounding anew, unleashing a driving need in him to satiate himself in her charms, to quell this hunger she created in him and to salve an appetite for her that was ravenous, voracious.

He moved into her embrace, felt her arms surround his hips, aware that she rested her cheek sweetly against the flat of his stomach, rubbing against his soft, curling hairs. His hands found the pins in her hair, pulling them impatiently, removing them, eager to see its dark wealth tumble about her shoulders and curl around her breasts. Silky chestnut strands, scented and shining, rippled through his fingers, cascading from his hands down the smooth length of her back and onto the pillows. She lifted her head, looking at him, her eyes heavy with passion. He had been right in likening her to a lion, a wildcat of the jungle. Dark lashes created shadows on her high cheekbones; upward-winging brows delineated her features. The full, ripe body, tinged with gilt, tempted his hands and invited his lips.

Her teasing touches grazed his buttocks and the backs of his thighs, slipping between them and rising higher and higher. She took in with her eyes all she touched with her fingers, the masculine hardness of him, feeling it pulsate with anticipation of her touch; and when her hand closed over him, a deep rumbling sounded in his chest, issuing from his lips in a barely audible moan.

He lay down beside her, reaching for her, covering her breasts with his hands, seeking them with his lips. But her appetite for him had not been satisfied, and she lifted herself onto her elbow, leaning over him, her hair draping over her shoulder to create a curtain between them. Again she touched him, running the tips of her fingers down his chest, hearing his small gasp of pleasure. The flat of her palm grazed his belly, and her lips followed her hand’s downward slope.

The swell of her hips and the rounded fullness of her bottom filled him with a throbbing urgency. Nothing short of having her, of losing himself in her, would satisfy. He was afraid the touch of her lips would drive him over the edge, past the point of no return. Impatiently he drew her upward, pushing her back against the pillows, trapping her with his weight. He wanted to plunder her, drive himself into her, slake his thirst, knowing his needs could be met only in her.

Her mouth was swollen, passion-bruised, and tasting of himself. Her arms wound around him, holding him close as she pressed against him. His hand caressed her breast, just skimming the rosy tip, and his lips followed hungrily, tasting and teasing until a golden warmth spread through her veins, quickening her already erratic pulse. Her hair became entangled round his neck, and he brushed it aside before resuming his sensual exploration. His lips lingered now in the place where her arm joined her body, then traced a patternless path back to her full, heaving breasts. She clung to the hard, sinewy muscles of his arms, afraid she would fall into a yawning abyss where flames were fed by passion.

His hands spanned her waist, tightening their grip to lift her above him. His mouth tortured her with teasing flicks of his tongue, making her shudder with unreleased passion. She curled her fingers into his night-dark hair, pushing him backward, away, pleading that he end the torment, only to follow his greedy mouth with her body, straining her flesh against his.

A throbbing ache spread through her, demanding to be satisfied, making her seek relief by the involuntary roll of her hips against the length of his thigh. He held her there, forcing her bottom forward, driving her pelvis against him.

Suddenly he shifted, throwing her backward and settling on top of her, looming over her. For a thousand times, it seemed, his lips and hands traveled her body, starting at the pulse point near her throat and seeming to end at her toes.

He whispered French words of love, words she’d taught him, praising her beauty, celebrating her sensuality. Her body seemed to have a life of its own, and she succumbed to it, turning, opening like the petals of a flower. His searching fingers adored her, his hungry mouth worshiped her. Lower and lower his kisses trailed, covering the tautness of her belly and slipping down to the softness between her thighs.

She felt him move upon her, demanding her response, tantalizing her with his mouth, bringing her ever closer to that which had always eluded her and kept itself nameless for her. Her body flamed beneath his touch, offering itself to him, arching and writhing, reveling in the sensation that was within her grasp, reveling in her own femininity. She felt as though she were separated from herself, that the world was comprised only of her aching need and his lips. Exotically sweet, thunderously compelling, her need urged him on, the same need that lifted her upward, upward, soaring and victorious, defeating her barriers, conquering her reserves, bringing her beyond the threshold of a delicious rapture never dreamed of or suspected, even in her fantasies.

And when his mouth closed over hers once again, he had proved her a woman and had not cursed her for it. He had allowed her to rise victorious in her passions, leaving her breathless and with the knowledge that there was more, much more. She was satisfied yet discontent; fed and yet famished. She wanted to share the ecstasy he had given her, participate in the sharing, and only with him.

Grasping her hips, he lifted her as though she were weightless. He brought her parted thighs around him, and when he drove downward, she felt as if she were being consumed by a totally different fire—one that burned still but left the sensibilities intact. Yet there was that same driving need deep within her, deeper and more elusive than she had experienced the first time. She struggled to bring herself closer, needing to be part of him this time, needing him to be part of herself. These fires burned deeper, brighter, fueled by his need for her, his hunger to be satisfied.

Tears glistened on her cheeks. She was triumphant, powerful, a woman. In this man’s arms she knew she had been born for this moment, that all her life had been leading up to what she was experiencing with this magnificent American. Together they had found the secrets of the universe.

Reuben lay back among the pillows, Mickey cradled against his chest. He knew that there would never be a moment to equal what he’d just experienced. There would be other women, he was sure of it, perhaps even a wife someday, but they would never do for him what this woman had just done. He closed his eyes and listened to his heart pound.

His last conscious thought before drifting off into a contented sleep was, George, you son of a bitch, you didn’t tell me the half of it.

The purple dawn was wrapping its arms around the château when Mickey crept from Reuben’s bed and made her way down the hall to her own room.

How cold and forlorn her bed felt. She wanted to be back in Reuben’s bed with her head on his shoulder. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She’d known it would be like this…and now there was nothing she could do. She’d tasted her fill of the American, and she wanted more. Would always want more.

But how long would she be able to keep him? Six months, a year? At forty-three, she was old enough to be his mother. Hardly the basis for an enduring romance. In the end, would he be the one to ask to leave, or would she send him on his way? Where in the world would she get that kind of strength? Oh, why hadn’t she listened to herself, to that little voice that had warned her?