Читать книгу Mistresses: Bound with Gold / Bought with Emeralds - Сандра Мартон, Katherine Garbera - Страница 8

‘ALLOW me…’

Regan hadn’t realised that she had dropped her other shoe until he stooped to pick it up.

‘Uh, thank you…’ she faltered, still balanced like a stork on her bare foot, stunned by the impact of his appearance.

Close up, the new arrival wasn’t as classically handsome as he had first appeared. But he was certainly tall—over six feet—and his black suit and midnight-blue shirt and tie accentuated his dark colouring. His raven hair was thick and well-shaped, springing back from a slight widow’s peak to brush his collar at the back. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, she guessed, and already carrying a tiny trace of grey at his narrow temples.

There was intelligence in his gaze and cynicism in the hard cast of his features—a gambler’s face, tense and watchful but betraying little of his own thoughts.

His eyes, which she had somehow expected to be also dark, were a light, penetrating steely-grey, slightly hooded under their heavy lids, and his stern Roman nose was framed by prominent cheekbones and a granite jaw. For such an athletic-looking man his skin was surprisingly pale and fine-grained, except on his lower cheeks and upper lip where it was roughened by a blue-black growth that was well beyond a five o’clock shadow.

Regan had to look a long, long way up at him, and as he inclined his head to meet her curious gaze she noticed the tracery of scars writhing up the left side of his lean throat and licking up under his jaw: the unmistakable scars of an old burn. To leave such a permanent stamp the injury must have been serious, and agonisingly painful.

So…he was damaged too—only his scars were on the outside…

Regan’s eyes flickered down to the flimsy black shoe cupped in his large hand as she fought to reject the dangerous rush of empathy. She saw that his hands, too, bore evidence of scarring, but it was absurd to think that a man like him would ever want, or need, her sympathy.

‘I—I took them off,’ she explained breathlessly, lowering her shod foot to the floor and transferring her weight to it, going on tiptoe with the other to maintain stability.

He smiled at her redundant comment, a slow curve of his well-defined mouth that made her wobble on her uneven perch.

‘So I see,’ he murmured on a light, teasing note that was totally at odds with his air of hard-bitten cynicism and the hooded wariness of his eyes.

His stroking thumb measured the length of the delicate spike heel in his hand. ‘Were they hurting you?’

His voice was deep and rasping, the husky edge abrading her senses like velvet sandpaper.

‘No—I—I was just lying down…’

He arched his graceful brows and she was aghast to feel herself blush as she was visited with a sudden mental image of herself languishing nude on black silk sheets, like a slave girl awaiting the arrival of her lord and master.

‘On the couch,’ she firmly emphasised, her mouth unknowingly prim.

‘Of course,’ he agreed, the quicksilver amusement in his penetrating eyes making her wonder whether he could read her skittish mind. She went hot all over. Naive she might be, but surely she wasn’t that transparent?

She tossed her head, rejecting the appalling notion, and adopted a pose of haughty confidence which came immediately under assault.

‘May I?’

Without waiting for an answer he knelt on the white carpet and encircled the ankle of her stockinged foot with lean fingers, tugging lightly to lift it from the floor.

Regan squeaked as she teetered off balance on her spindly heel, and grabbed at his shoulders to stay upright. Even through the padding of expensive fabric she could feel the shifting layers of solid muscle.

‘What are you doing?’ she gasped, wondering if he was some kind of weird foot-fetishist. ‘Oh…’

She watched him slide her shoe back onto her foot, wiggling it from side to side to ease the fit. ‘Thank you…you needn’t have bothered,’ she mumbled, embarrassed.

He tipped his head back, making no effort to rise. ‘I enjoyed it,’ he said, meeting her wide-eyed gaze, his fingers still lightly encircling her fine-boned ankle. ‘You have very pretty feet. And legs…’ he added, brushing his fingers gently up her calf to linger in the sensitive hollow at the back of her knee.

Regan stiffened as a violent tingle shot from her toes to her groin. Her heart beat furiously in her chest and her breathing quickened. She was no longer in any doubt. This was it. This was him. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, hoping that she didn’t look as flustered as she felt.

‘I’m sorry you had such a long wait. I hope you weren’t too bored.’ Having thoroughly disconcerted her with his Prince Charming act, he rose slowly back to his full height. Regan felt as if he was surveying every inch of her on the way up, and her body prickled with awareness, her eyes darkening and her nostrils flaring at the warm, spicy male scent that rose from his unbuttoned jacket.

‘Pierre tells me that your name is Eve.’

She nodded, her eyelashes fluttering nervously at his towering proximity. Being short, she was used to men looming over her, but she wasn’t used to feeling such an acute sense of feminine self-awareness.

Unlike Pierre, he didn’t display even a flicker of scepticism. ‘How appropriate,’ he said, capturing her hand and raising her knuckles briefly to his lips. ‘In that case you can call me Adam.’

‘Your name is Adam?’ she repeated, jolted by the brush of his warm mouth into forgetting that the last thing she wanted to do was make an issue out of their names. Who would have thought one innocuous kiss on the back of her hand could feel so flagrantly erotic?

‘One of them,’ he smoothly conceded, stretching the coincidence. He lowered, but did not release her captive hand. ‘So, here we are, Adam and Eve in a garden of delights…and this time there’s not a serpent in sight.’

No serpent, just a worm who had finally turned! thought Regan, rescued from her confusion by a stirring of the wicked sense of humour which had lately been all but smothered out of existence.

‘I’m sorry Cleo had to cancel,’ she lied, sliding her tingling fingers slowly out of his hand, her fingernails scraping deliberately across his relaxed palm, crossing the faint ridge of a scar. ‘I hope you aren’t too disappointed.’ She followed up her words by tilting her head so that her glossy locks slipped against her soft cheek, and giving him what she hoped was a brazen, woman-of-the-world smile.

A faintly arrested expression crossed his face. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining,’ he murmured, looking from the curve of her mouth to the glimpse of delicate earlobe, bare of ornamentation, to the turbulent depths of her violet eyes, shimmering with defiant excitement.

‘And into every life a little rain must fall,’ she responded vaguely, distracted by the darts of electricity zinging along her nerves into trotting out another of her mother’s irritating maxims.

His lips quirked. ‘Are you talking about Cleo’s life, or mine?’ His voice dropped to an insinuating growl. ‘You’re not planning to rain on my parade, are you, Eve?’

She wasn’t quite sure of his meaning, but judging from his tone it had to be indecent. She touched her tongue to her upper lip. Witty sexual repartee was not exactly her forte.

She blundered on with the cryptic analogy. ‘A man like you is always prepared for any eventuality. I’m sure you come equipped with your own umbrella.’

‘A whole drawerful of them,’ he agreed blandly. For some reason that made her remember what she had seen in the bathroom. No…surely they weren’t talking about contraception?

Were they?

Whatever the topic of conversation, she was not going to ruin her image by blushing again!

‘You look tired,’ she blurted, seizing on the truth as the perfect diversionary tactic. She had noticed the faint blue tinge to the pale skin under his eyes, and the subtle tautness around his mouth and jaw that suggested a stern measure of control, and now she identified the lazy burr that had entered his tone. He was a man who concealed his fatigue well—as he probably instinctively hid any form of weakness.

‘It’s been a rough day. But don’t worry, I’m rapidly getting my second wind,’ he promised drily. He shot his cuff and glanced at his no-nonsense steel watch. ‘I know it’s late, and we may not get there for cocktails, but we can still make the banquet. If you’ll just give me a few minutes to change…’

He had thought she was complaining! ‘Oh, no—I didn’t mean—er Y-you don’t have to rush—’ she protested, laying a restraining hand on his elbow as he turned away.

All his former wariness had returned, and his smile was sharp with cynical understanding as he looked over his shoulder at her. ‘Nonsense. You came here expecting to attend an elegant party at the most exclusive restaurant in town and I don’t intend to deprive you of the pleasure,’ he soothed.

Regan ignored his words in favour of his tone. He was tired, but he was resigned to going out because it was part of the unwritten bargain, and he was obviously a man who strictly honoured his obligations, however tiresome.

‘I really don’t mind if we go out to dinner or not,’ she said, her hand tightening on the fabric of his suit.

‘Really?’ He turned back, but it was clear that he didn’t believe her. He thought her a clone of the worldly Cleo—a selfish little cat who was out to milk their bargain for everything she could get.

‘I’m not very hungry, anyway,’ she told him, letting her hand drop. ‘An expensive meal would be totally wasted on me. I think I ate too many of Pierre’s wonderful canapés,’ she explained ruefully.

There was a tiny pause as he studied her expression. ‘So you would be quite content if I asked him to prepare a light meal for us here, instead,’ he said slowly.

‘I actually don’t think I could manage anything at all,’ she confessed, her earlier appetite having been swallowed up by the tension of meeting him. ‘Whereas you probably need something substantial after your tough day…’

‘But you’re happy to keep me company while I eat…’

What did he think, that she would sulk and pout because he wanted to eat and she didn’t? ‘Of course.’

‘And we’ll join the party afterwards…’

‘We don’t have to do that, either, if you don’t feel like going out. Unless, of course, there’s some reason that you need to be seen making an appearance there,’ she added hurriedly when his eyes narrowed, taking on a new and disturbing intensity.

‘So…what you’re suggesting is that we not leave the apartment at all?’

His soft-voiced drawl made Regan’s knees go weak as she realised the full implications of her impulsive offer. If they didn’t go out, then there would be nothing, and no one, to distract them from the real purpose of the evening. No way to hide from the consequences of her own actions.

‘You’re willing to forgo the excitement of a night on the town because I’ve had a rough day?’ he continued in that same tone of silken curiosity.

She grasped her courage and opted for honesty. ‘I expect that I’ll have all the excitement I can handle right here,’ she confessed, her wry words provoking him into a deep, purring laugh.

‘Both kind and flattering—the perfect companion after a hard day at the office! I look forward to finding out how many other virtues you possess.’

Regan basked in an unexpected thrill of accomplishment. She had captivated his jaded interest—made him laugh. Maybe this was going to be easier than she had thought. After all, unlike her husband, this man wanted her to be sexy and seductive!

‘If you were expecting a virtuous woman, you’re going to be severely disappointed.’ She flirted up at him through her lowered lashes.

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted it until her eyelashes flew wide. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he mused, looking deep into her slumberous eyes. He brushed the pad of his thumb across her mouth, causing it to quiver and part, and then pressed firmly against her plump lower lip. She gave a little gasp as the tip of her tongue tasted the saltiness of his skin.

He misunderstood her tiny flinch. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not smearing your lipstick…it appears to have worn off.’

His tolerant humour made it obvious that he was used to women whose looks were their stock-in-trade.

Regan’s eyebrows crumpled at the dent to her glamorous self-image. She had never thought to recheck her lipstick. ‘It must have gone to garnish the canapés,’ she laughed huskily, to disguise her chagrin. ‘I’ll put some more on while you’re talking to Pierre about dinner—’

‘No. Don’t bother…’ The pressure of his thumb stopped her words in her mouth. ‘I like the nude look. I like the contrast between the sultry seduction of your elaborate eye make-up and the soft, pink innocence of your mouth.’ And, as if that wasn’t erotic enough to take her breath away, he added casually, ‘Besides, I don’t like the taste of lipstick.’

He took away his thumb and she swayed slightly, thinking that he was going to suit his actions to his words, but instead of following up his claim with a kiss he said indulgently, ‘So how about fixing me a drink while I go and see Pierre about dinner? Whisky—on the rocks. The eightyear-old Scotch, if you please…’

Regan’s hands were still trembling as she uncapped the Scotch and poured his drink, clashing the neck of the bottle against the squat crystal glass.

She ordered herself to calm down. They had the whole evening ahead of them…of course he didn’t want to rush things. He was a highly civilised man. He wanted to unwind from his busy day first, to be amused and entertained in undemanding company. As Cleo had loudly insisted—this wasn’t prostitution. And Adam had just proved her right with his willingness to do what his escort wanted rather than exercise his own preference. The message was that Regan was here to enjoy herself, not simply to provide raw sex on command…

When she turned from the bar her heart jumped to find that Adam was already back, lounging on the couch, his long legs splayed, his head tipped back against the pale cushions, exposing his scarred throat as he gazed up at the ceiling. He must have moved as silently as a cat. He had shed his jacket and tie, the subtle sheen of his dark blue shirt catching the light where his arms stretched along the back of the couch. His collar was unbuttoned, and as she moved closer she could see a drift of dark hair revealed by the narrow V of his open shirt.

The ice cubes tinkled against the glass in her hand and he rolled his head to one side and lazily watched her approach. In spite of the relaxation of his big body, Regan wasn’t fooled into thinking that his brain was clouded by his fatigue. His eyes, though heavy-lidded, weren’t in the least bit drowsy as she offered him his drink.

He shifted his torso, dropping his right hand to rest near his hip, but made no attempt to reach for the glass. After a moment of dithering uncertainty she stepped between his splayed knees to bend over and place his drink directly into his hand.

His fingers flexed around the glass, momentarily trapping hers against the slippery surface, and when she lifted her head enquiringly she saw that his eyes weren’t on her face. They were level with the plunging front of her dress, where her small, unconfined breasts, rounded almost to voluptuousness by gravity, crowded up against the edge of the deeply scooped neckline.

Trapped in her provocative pose, Regan was shocked to feel her nipples tighten and begin to rub against the material with every indrawn breath, as if beckoning his attention.

‘You’re not wearing a bra.’ He voiced his intimate discovery, lifting his other hand to languidly trace a finger around her curving neckline, careful not to touch the creamy swells of flesh, only the seam of fabric against which they strained. He took a sip of his drink as he did so, allowing her captured fingers to slip away from the glass.

Deprived of the excuse to flaunt her modest charms in his face, Regan had to force herself to move. All he’d had to do, she thought, was tuck his finger into that edge and he would have been stroking her aching breasts…

‘I—I’m so small I don’t usually have to,’ she said, her head throbbing with blood as she straightened reluctantly within the corral of his strong thighs.

‘The best things come in small packages,’ he murmured, letting his fingers trail down her bare arm, and then drift lightly over her hip and flank to the sensitive back of her knee, which he had earlier caressed with such electrifying effect.

‘Stockings or pantyhose?’ he wondered, plucking gently at the silky sheer black nylon.

Regan’s tongue felt thick in her mouth. ‘Stockings.’

Since she’d been widowed she had discovered a simple economy: it was cheaper to mix and match pairs of stockings than to buy pantyhose that might have to be discarded because of a ladder in one leg. But tonight it hadn’t been economy dictating her choice of underwear.

‘And, let me guess…black lace suspenders?’

She blushed at his gentle mockery. It seemed like such a ridiculous cliché, and yet the garter belt had made her feel wickedly sexy when she had been clipping it onto her silky stockings. She had bought the lacy black underwear on her second wedding anniversary, in a vain attempt to inject some excitement into her marriage bed. Of course, she hadn’t known at the time that Michael’s excitement was reserved for his busty blonde mistress!

Holding her rosy-cheeked gaze, Adam smoothed his spread hand slowly back up over the hem of her skirt and across the front of her thigh until he encountered the betrayingoutline of her suspender, pressing lightly to imprint it on his palm.

‘Anything else?’

All her attention was concentrated on his hand on her leg.

‘I beg your pardon?’

He took another swallow of whisky, watching her over the silvery rim. ‘I asked if you were wearing anything else?’

She licked her lips. ‘You mean a-apart from my dress?’ she said huskily.

‘I mean under your dress,’ he clarified, removing his hand, but leaving behind its heated brand on her thigh.

Her eyes widened and she nodded jerkily. What kind of woman didn’t wear panties when she went out, for goodness’ sake? What if she got knocked over in the street, or was ambushed by a freak gust of wind? The potential for embarrassment was enormous. Even Lisa, who was an ardent minimalist, wore tanga briefs to cover the bare essentials!

‘Black lace?’

She nodded again, riveted by the breathtaking boldness of that pantherish stare. He sipped his whisky and she had a strong premonition that what he was planning to say next was in the nature of a challenge.

‘Would you take them off for me, if I asked you to?’

The air was sucked from her lungs and a molten wave of heat scorched through her veins.

‘Y-You mean…here? Now?’

He tilted his head. ‘Have I shocked you?’

Senseless.

Regan was furious. She’d thought she had been doing so well! And now he had flung down this outrageous gauntlet.

There was a faint smile on his face as he waited to see what she would do next, and to Regan the hint of mocking detachment in his regard was an added insult. She had a lowering suspicion that he wouldn’t be surprised if she melted in a puddle of stammering embarrassment—that he had seen through her sophisticated charade to the nervous little mouse beneath.

No! She wasn’t going to be shocked by his indecent proposal. Wasn’t this precisely why she had come here—to play adult games, to experiment, to explore beyond the limits of her own experience? To celebrate her freedom from the tyranny of lies by flinging open the doors on her sequestered sexuality?

Aware of the danger she was courting, Regan was gripped by a powerful urge to shake up that infuriating masculine self-assurance…to pay him back, shock for shock. It struck her quite forcibly that, in spite of the explicit sexual threat that Adam represented, she was less afraid now than she had been all evening.

So…Adam wanted to see how far she could be pushed, did he? Well, now was the time to show him that she was more than equal to his game. Maybe if she had been more keen to indulge in sexual role-playing during their marriage then her husband would have been less keen to stray—except that Michael had never encouraged his loving wife to be anything other than strictly conventional in bed.

Conventional and boring!

Without a word Regan reached up under her skirt and hooked her shaking thumbs into the high-cut sides of her bikini panties.

Adam’s face was suddenly wiped clean of all expression and he moved with lightning swiftness, his thighs tensing as he leaned abruptly forward to clamp a preventive hand on her forearm.

‘I’m sorry…I was teasing you. I apologise for my lack of finesse,’ he said, coolly snatching his gauntlet back out of her reckless grasp. ‘I’d hate to spoil our evening by rushing pleasures that are better savoured. I’m afraid the potent combination of a sensuous woman and an excellent Scotch temporarily overwhelmed my self-control—not to mention my good manners,’ he added, with just the right touch of rueful self-derision. He settled back with his whisky, looking up at her with carefully modified solemnity.

Smooth-talking devil! He might have been only teasing, but he had been in full control of all his faculties. He had been testing her compliance.

Pumped for action, Regan was tempted to ignore his glib apology and go ahead with her daring act of defiance. However, he had just referred to her as a sensuous woman, and for that delicious compliment she was almost willing to forgive him. If he had called her beautiful she wouldn’t have believed him, but to be sensuous a woman didn’t have to have model-girl looks. Beauty was only skin-deep, whereas sensuality was innate—and therefore infinitely more desirable as far as Regan was concerned.

She reluctantly removed her hands and ran them slowly up and down the side-seams of her dress, deliberately wiggling her hips as she smoothed the rumpled fabric back into place. It felt wild and wanton, stroking herself like this in front of him, but it was the kind of thing that a sensuous woman would do—inviting a man to share her feminine appreciation of her own body.

He watched, his face softening with a return of his former amusement, but this time it was laced with a measure of wry respect.

‘Why don’t you join me?’ he murmured, intrigued by the hint of shy excitement in her slinky self-absorption.

‘Thank you, I will…’ she purred, caught up in her performance, her eyes glowing with smug triumph as she sank onto the empty cushions beside him. The couch was long enough to take his full length—and wide enough for an orgy, she thought, nervously.

‘I meant in a drink,’ he explained, toasting her with his glass.

‘Oh…’ Her sultry look dissolved. ‘I did have a vodka and tonic around here somewhere…’ She frowned vaguely about.

‘Forget it. Just go ahead and help yourself to another,’ Adam advised with the careless ease of a man who never had to worry about a budget—for alcohol or anything else. Lounging at his ease, he obviously expected her to play hostess while Pierre was occupied in the kitchen.

She thought she had probably infused enough alcohol into her system as it was, but a drink would give her some occupation for her nervous hands.

She stood up, ultra-conscious of her lack of grace as her narrow heels tilted awkwardly into the thick pile of the carpet and almost tipped her sideways into his lap. ‘Shall I freshen yours, too?’ she asked, to distract him from her clumsiness.

‘No, it’s fine,’ he said, swirling the contents of his glass. ‘You pour a mean Scotch.’

Regan shrugged with her hands. ‘My father was a big whisky-drinker—’ She bit her lip as she turned away, annoyed at her slip. She knew the cheap rot-gut that had killed her father by the time she was ten had little in common with the smooth, expensive, aromatic spirit that Adam savoured.

‘And your husband? What about him?’

Her body stiffened as she swung back to face his grating accusation.

‘My what?’

He caught at her left hand, lifting it to the light so that they both could see the faint band of pale skin on her ring finger. He immediately let it drop, as if contaminated by her touch.

‘Are you married?’ he demanded harshly.

She hesitated. Just what kind of man was she dealing with? ‘What if I said yes?’

The light grey eyes hardened to cold steel. ‘Then I’d politely show you the door. And Derek would cease to be part of my acquaintance. He knows my opinion on the subject: I don’t sleep with other men’s wives. And I despise cheating and deception—No-one gets a second chance to breach my trust. So if you are married tell me now, before this goes any further, because I make a very bad enemy…’

Regan was stunned by the ruthless force behind his pronouncement. He possessed the will, the wealth and the power to protect his personal honour, and wouldn’t hesitate to use those weapons to threaten and punish anyone who sought to compromise it in pursuit of their own interests.

‘I’m not married,’ she declared huskily, her curiosity more than satisfied.

Unfortunately, his suspicion was too sharp to be easily blunted by the belated admission.

‘But you were,’ he rapped out. ‘Divorced?’

If she hadn’t been so naive for so long she might have been able to say yes with dignity. As things stood, there was little honour in being Michael’s widow.

She shook her head and looked down, disturbed to find herself twisting the non-existent ring on her finger.

‘Widowed. Mi—my husband was killed in a car crash.’

There was a brief, splintering silence.

‘I’m sorry.’

Her chin jerked up at the deep gentleness of his tone, her cheeks stinging as if he had reached out and slapped her. The cold steel had gone from his eyes, to be replaced by a smoky speculation that made her angry heart burn. She didn’t want tenderness, dammit! All she wanted from him was one night of simple, uncomplicated lust.

‘Don’t be.’

His eyes narrowed at the clipped command.

‘Like that, was it?’ he mused, still with that threatening undertone of softness.

She raked her fingers through her hair, and flicked the ends over her shoulder in a gesture half-nervous, halfdefiant. ‘You can’t begin to imagine what it was like,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘And I’d rather you didn’t bother.’

‘How long ago did it happen?’

She tossed him a frustrated look. She could guess what he was thinking—he was wondering whether she was acting out some psychological trauma associated with her marriage.

With a vengeance!

Her eyes flashed. ‘Long enough.’

Eight months. Long enough for her to have found out why Michael had insisted on handling all their joint finances. He had spent their savings, run up credit card debts, mortgaged the house and taken out loans for which, as his next of kin and inheritor of his estate, she was liable. The absence of a will had compounded the legal problems, and only after months of trying to straighten out the chaotic financial tangle her lawyer had informed her that there was little left to inherit.

And two weeks ago she had finally discovered why.

Two weeks ago she had received a tearful visit from Michael’s long-term—mistress, the earthy, voluptuous Cindy…and his three-and-a-half-year-old son.

Her last remaining shred of respect for Michael had vanished as she had been forced to face the degrading truth that for the entire duration of their marriage her husband had been living an expensive double life. One that she, all unknowingly, had helped finance!

Well, tonight she would have her revenge.

Tonight she wasn’t going to be the sweet, understanding little woman, bravely swallowing her pride and doing what was expected of her.

Tonight she was going to be the ruthless user, the unrepentant sinner…