Читать книгу Rags To Riches: A Desire To Serve: The Paternity Promise / Stolen Kiss From a Prince / The Maid's Daughter - Джанис Мейнард, Merline Lovelace - Страница 14
ОглавлениеEven with Grace’s seductive scent delivering a broadside every time Blake turned his head or leaned toward her, he didn’t plan what happened when they returned to the villa. His conscience would always remain clear on that point. When he suggested a swim, his only intent was to continue the easy camaraderie established during lunch.
What he hadn’t anticipated was the kick to his gut when Grace joined him poolside and slipped off her terry cloth cover-up. He’d already done a half dozen laps but wasn’t the least winded until the sight of her slender, seductive curves sucked the air from his lungs.
“How’s the water?”
Blake tried to untangle his tongue. Damned thing felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool. “Cool at first,” he got out after an epic struggle. “Not so bad once you’re in.”
Oh, for God’s sake! Her suit was a poppy-colored one-piece that covered more than it revealed. Yet he was damned if he could stop his gaze from devouring the slopes of her breasts when she bent to deposit her towel on the lounger. That unexpected jolt was followed by another when she turned to dip a toe in the water and gave him an unimpeded view of the curve of her bottom cheeks.
“Yikes!” She jerked her foot back with a yelp and zinged him an indignant look. “You think this is cool? What’s your definition of cold? Minus forty?”
He grinned and tread water as she dipped another cautious toe. Her face screwed into a grimace. She inched down a step, her shoulders hunched almost to her ears. Eased onto the next step. The water swirled around her calves, her thighs.
“Coward,” he teased.
She took another tentative step, and his grin slipped. The water lapped the lower edge of her suit. The bright red material dampened at the apex of her thighs and provided a throat-closing outline of what lay beneath.
“Oh, hell.”
He barely heard her mutter of self-disgust. Or felt the splash when she gathered her courage and flopped all the way in. She bobbed up a moment later, her hair a sleek waterfall of pale gold. Sparkling drops beaded her lashes. Laughter lit her eyes.
Something inside Blake shifted. He didn’t see the woman who’d lied to him and his family by omission, or the conspirator who’d withheld crucial information about the mother of his child. There were no shadows haunting the eyes of this laughing, splashing water sprite. For the moment at least, no memories constrained her simple pleasure. It was a glimpse of the woman Grace must have been before she took on the burden of her cousin’s secrets. An even more tantalizing hint of the woman who might reemerge if and when she shed that burden.
Without conscious thought, Blake realigned his priorities. Convincing his bride to trust him remained his primary goal. Getting her into bed ran a close second. But keeping that carefree laughter in her eyes was fast elbowing its way up close to the top of the list.
“All right,” she gasped, dancing on her toes. “I’m in. When does it get to ‘not so bad’?”
“Do a couple laps. You’ll warm up quick enough.”
She made a face but took his suggestion. He rolled into an easy breaststroke and kept pace with her. She had a smooth, clean stroke, he noted with approval, a nice kick. Two laps turned into three, then four. Or what would have been four.
She made the turn, pushed off the wall at an angle and submarined into him. They went under in a tangle of arms and legs. She came up sputtering. He came up with his bride plastered against his chest.
“Sorry!”
Blinking the water out of her eyes, she clung to him. They were at the deep end, in well over their heads. Literally, Blake thought, as her thighs scissored between his. Maybe figuratively.
Hell, there was no maybe about it. He wanted her with a raw need he didn’t try to analyze. She must have seen it in his face, felt his muscles tighten under her slick, slippery hands. She looked up at him with a question in her eyes.
“According to our contract,” he got out on a near rasp, “any and all physical contact must be by mutual consent. If you don’t want this to go any further, you’d better say so now.”
After a pause that just about ripped out Blake’s guts, she clamped her lips shut and matched him look for look. With another growl, he claimed her mouth.
The kiss was swift and hot and hungry. If he’d interpreted her silence wrong, if she’d tried to push away, Blake would’ve released her. He was almost sure of that. She didn’t, thank God, and he threw off every vestige of restraint.
They went under again, mouths and bodies fused. When they resurfaced, Blake kept her pinned, gave two swift kicks and took them to the wall. He flattened her against the tiles, using one hand to hold them both up while he attacked one strap of her suit with the other. The skin of her shoulder was soft and cool and slick. The mingled scents of lavender and chlorine acted like a spur, turning hunger into greed.
He switched hands, yanked down the other strap. She was as anxious now to shuck her bathing suit as he was to get her out of it. A wiggle, a shimmy, a kick, and it was gone. His followed two heartbeats later.
Her breast fit perfectly in his palm. The flesh was firm and smooth, the tip already stiff from the cold water. He rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and damned near lost it when she arched her back to give him access to her other breast. He hiked her up a few inches, devouring her with teeth and tongue while he slicked his hand down her belly.
“Oh, God!”
Moaning, Grace threw her head back. She’d agreed to this. Had spent more than a few hours tossing around the idea of casual sex with this man. But this—this was nowhere near casual! Blake’s mouth scorched her breasts, her shoulder, her throat. And her heart almost jumped out of her chest when he curved his fingers over her mound and parted her crease. She moaned again as he thrust into her and, to her utter mortification, exploded.
The orgasm ripped through her. She rode it blindly, mindlessly, until the spasms died and she flopped like a wet rag doll against his chest.
The thunder in her ears didn’t subside. If anything, it grew louder. Only gradually did Grace realize that was Blake’s heart tattooing against her ear. Gathering her shattered senses, she raised her head and curved her lips.
The skin at the corners of his blues eyes crinkled as he started to return her smile. Then she wrapped her legs around his hips and his expression froze. Slowly, sensually, she lifted her hips, positioning herself.
“Wait,” he got out on a strangled grunt. “We need to take this inside.”
“Why?”
“Protection. You need pro…” He broke off, hissing as she angled her hips. “Grace…”
He didn’t say it, but she guessed he was thinking of Molly. She certainly was.
“It’s okay,” she said, breathless and urgent. “I’m covered.”
He reacted to that bit of news with gratifying speed. Planting a foot against the tiles, he propelled them toward the shallow end. The sparkling water cascaded over his shoulders and chest as he took a wide stance and hefted her bottom with both palms.
A fresh wave of desire coiled deep in Grace’s belly. Eager to give him some of the explosive pleasure he’d given her, she wrapped her legs around his waist. She didn’t want slow. Didn’t want gentle. When he thrust into her, she slapped her hips into his and clenched every muscle in her body.
He held out longer than she had. Much longer. Grace was close to losing control again when his fingers dug into her bottom cheeks. He went rigid and jammed her against him at an angle that put exquisite, unbearable pressure right where she wanted it the most. With a ragged groan, she arched into another shuddering, shattering climax. This time she took him with her.
* * *
Jet lag, a lack of sleep and the most intense sex he’d ever had combined to plow into Blake like an Abrams tank. He remembered helping Grace out of the water and savoring the view before she wrapped herself in one of the villa’s blue-and-white-striped pool towels. He vaguely recalled diving back in to retrieve their bathing suits. He wasn’t sure whether he’d suggested they stretch out in one of the loungers inside the vine-covered pergola, or she had. But the next time he opened his eyes, the sun had disappeared and hundreds of tiny white lights made a fairyland of the pool area.
He sat up, blinking, and scraped a hand across a sandpaper chin. The movement drew the attention of the woman on the lounger beside his.
“What time is it?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.
“I’m not sure. My internal clock is still set to Texas time.” She glanced at the canopy of stars outside the pergola. “I’m guessing it’s probably nine or nine-thirty.”
Blake winced. Great! Absolutely great! Nothing demonstrated a man’s virility like taking four or five hours to recharge after sex.
“Sorry I passed out on you.”
“No problem.” His obvious chagrin had a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth. “I napped, too.”
Not for long, apparently. She’d used some of the time he was out cold to change into khaki shorts and a scoop-necked T-shirt. Her hair looked freshly washed, its shining length caught up in a plastic clip.
“Have you eaten?”
“I was waiting for you.”
He was still in the swim trunks he’d brought up from the pool. They were dry now and rode low on his hips as he pushed off the lounger and reached out to help her up.
“Let’s go raid the kitchen.”
The hesitation before she took his hand was so brief he might have imagined it. He couldn’t miss the constraint that kept her silent, though, once they’d settled in high-backed wrought-iron stools at the kitchen’s monster, green-tiled island. As Madame LeBlanc had indicated, the chef had left a gourmand’s dream of sumptuous choices in the fridge and on the counters. Grace opted for a bowl of cold, spicy gazpacho and a chunk of bread torn from one of the long, crusty baguettes poking out of a wire basket. Blake poured them both a glass of light, fruity chardonnay before heaping his plate with salad Niçoise and a man-size wedge of asparagus-and-goat-cheese quiche warmed in the microwave.
He forked down several bites of salad, savoring its red, ripe tomatoes and anchovies, eyeing Grace as she played with her bread, waiting for her to break the small silence. He had a good idea what was behind her sudden constraint. Morning-after nerves, or in this case, evening-after.
She validated his guess a few moments later. Drawing in a deep breath, she tackled the thorny subject head-on. “About what happened in the pool…”
He sensed what was coming and wasn’t about to make it easy for her. “What about it?”
“I know we put the possibility of sex on the table when we negotiated this, uh, partnership.”
“But?”
She looked down, crumbled her bread, met his gaze again. “But things just spun out of control. I’m as much to blame as you are,” she added quickly. “Now that I’ve had time to think, though, it was too quick, Blake. Too fast.”
“We’ll take it slower next time.”
The solemn promise almost won a smile.
“I meant it was too soon. I’m still trying to adjust to this whole marriage business.”
“I know.” Serious now, he laid down his fork. “But let’s clarify one matter. Things didn’t just spin out of control. I wanted you, Grace.”
Color tinted her cheeks. “I’ll concede that point, counselor. And it was obvious I wanted you.”
“I understand this is an adjustment period for you, however. For both of us. We’ve a lot yet to learn about each other.”
The deliberate reference to her hoard of secrets brought her chin up. “Exactly. Which is why we should avoid a repetition of what happened this afternoon until you’re comfortable with who I am and vice versa.”
What the hell would it take to get her to trust him? Irritation put a bite in Blake’s voice. “So we just revert back to cool and polite? You think it’ll be that easy?”
“No,” she admitted, “but necessary if this arrangement of ours is going to work.”
He swallowed the bitter aftertaste of anchovies and frustration. “All right. We’ll take hot, wild sex off the agenda. For now.”
* * *
Grace spent the second night of her honeymoon the same way she had her first, restless and conflicted and alone.
While moonlight streamed through windows left open to a soft night breeze, she punched the mounded pillow and replayed the scene in the kitchen. She’d been right to put the brakes on. The way she’d flamed in Blake’s arms, lost every ounce of rational thought… She’d never gone so mindless with hunger before. Never craved a man’s touch and the wild sensation of his hard, sculpted body crushing hers.
She’d had time to think while Blake dozed this afternoon, and the fact that she’d abandoned herself so completely had shaken her. Still shook her! She’d witnessed firsthand the misery her cousin endured, for God’s sake. Had helped Anne run, hide, struggle painfully to regain her confidence and self-respect. Grace couldn’t just throw off the brutal burden of those months and years. Nor could she dump it on Blake’s broad, willing shoulders—much as she ached to.
No, she was right to pull back. Revert to cool and polite, to use his phrase. They both needed time to adjust to this awkward marriage before they took the next step. Whatever the heck that was.
It took a severe exercise of will, but she managed to block the mental image of Blake pinning her to the tiles and drop into sleep.
* * *
She remained firm in her resolve to back things up a step when she went down for breakfast the next morning.
The villa’s staff had obviously reported for duty. The heavenly scent of fresh-baked bread wafted from the direction of the kitchen, and a maid in a pale blue uniform wielded a feather duster like a baton at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes lit with curiosity and a friendly welcome when she spotted Grace.
“Bonjour, Madame Dalton.”
“Bonjour.”
That much Grace could manage. The quick spate that followed had her offering an apology.
“I’m sorry. I don’t speak French.”
“Ah, excusez-moi. I am Marie. The downstairs maid, yes? I am most happy to meet you.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, too.”
She hesitated, not exactly embarrassed but not real eager to admit she didn’t have a clue where her husband of two days might be. Luckily, Blake had primed the staff with the necessary information.
“Monsieur Dalton said to tell you that he takes coffee on the east terrace,” Marie informed her cheerfully. “He waits for you to join him for breakfast.”
“And the east terrace is…?”
“Just there, madame.” She aimed the feather duster. “Through the petite salon.”
“Thanks.”
She crossed the salon’s exquisitely thick carpet and made for a set of open French doors that gave onto a flagstone terrace enclosed by ivy-drenched stone walls. A white wrought-iron table held a silver coffee service and a basket of brioche. Blake held his Blackberry and was working the keyboard one-handed while he sipped from a gold-rimmed china cup with the other.
Grace stopped just inside the French doors to drag in several deep breaths. She needed them. The sight of her husband in the clear, shimmering light of a Provencal morning was something to behold. A stray sunbeam snuck through the elms shading the patio to gild his hair. His crisp blue shirt was open at the neck and rolled at the cuffs. He looked calm and collected and too gorgeous for words, dammit!
She sucked in another breath and stepped out onto the patio. “Good morning.”
He set down both his coffee cup and the Blackberry and rose.
“Good morning.” The greeting was as courteous and impersonal as his smile. “Did you sleep well?”
Right. Okay. This was how she wanted it. What she’d insisted on.
“Very well,” she lied. “You?”
“As well as could be expected after yesterday afternoon.”
When she flashed a warning look, he shed his polite mask and hooked a brow.
“I zoned out for a good four hours on that lounge chair,” he reminded her. “As a consequence, I didn’t need much sleep last night.”
And if she bought that one, Blake thought sardonically, he had several more he could sell her.
He didn’t have to sell them. The swift way she broke eye contact told him she suspected he was stretching the truth until it damned near screamed.
She had to know she’d kept him awake most of the night. She, and her absurd insistence they ignore the wildfire they’d sparked yesterday. As if they could. The heat of it still singed Blake’s mind and burned in his gut.
In the small hours of the night he’d called himself every kind of an idiot for agreeing to this farcical facade. It made even less sense in the bright light of morning. They couldn’t shove yesterday in a box, stick it on the closet shelf and pretend it never happened. Yet he had agreed, and now he was stuck with it.
It didn’t improve his mood to discover she’d dabbed on some of the perfumed oil he’d bought her yesterday. The provocative scent tugged at his senses as he pulled out one of the heavy wrought-iron chairs for her.
“Why don’t you pour yourself some coffee and I’ll tell Auguste we’re ready for… Ah, here he is.”
At first glance few people would tag the individual who appeared in the open French doors as a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu and two-time winner of the Coupe du Monde de la Patisserie—the World Cup of pastry. He sported stooped shoulders, sparse gray hair and a hound-dog face with dewlaps that hung in mournful folds. If he’d cracked a smile anytime in the past two years, Blake sure hadn’t seen it.
The great Auguste had been retired for a decade and, according to Delilah, going out of his gourd with boredom when she’d hunted him down. After subjecting the poor man to the full force of her personality, she’d convinced him to take over the kitchen of Hôtel des Elmes.
Blake had made his way to the kitchen earlier to say hello. He now introduced the chef to Grace. Auguste bowed over her hand and greeted her in tones of infinite sadness.
“I welcome you to Saint-Rémy.”
Gulping, she threw Blake a what-in-the-world-did-I-do look? He stepped in smoothly.
“I’ve told Grace about your scallops au gratin, Auguste. Perhaps you’ll prepare them for us one evening.”
“But of course.” He heaved a long-suffering sigh and turned his doleful gaze back to Grace. “Tonight, if you wish it, madame.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“And now I shall prepare the eggs Benedict for you and monsieur, yes?”
“Er, yes. Please.”
He bowed again and retreated, shoulders drooping. Grace followed his exit with awed eyes.
“Did someone close to him just die?” she whispered to Blake.
The question broke the ice that had crusted between them. Laughing, Blake went back to his own seat.
“Not that I know of. In fact, you’re seeing him in one of his more cheerful moods.”
“Riiight.”
With a doubtful glance at the French doors, she spread her napkin across her lap. He waited until she’d filled a cup with rich, dark brew to offer the basket of fresh-baked brioche.
“We’ve got dinner taken care of,” he said as she slathered on butter and thick strawberry jam. “What would you like to do until then?”
She sent him a quick look, saw he hadn’t packed some hidden meaning into the suggestion, and relaxed into her first genuine smile of the morning.
“You mentioned a Van Gogh trail. I’d love to explore that, if you’re up for it.”
Resolutely, Blake suppressed the memory of his mother ruthlessly dragging Alex and him along every step of the route commemorating Saint-Rémy’s most famous artist.
“I’m up for it.”
