“I’ll get the idea.” Nigel closed his eyes as Trevor walked to the piano. He himself couldn’t play a note, but he had an uncanny sense of music nonetheless.
And his antenna began to quiver as Trevor played the opening bars.
Quick, Nigel thought, lively, subtly sexy, and fun. Yes, Trevor was right, as always. They had a gold mine in Shawn Gallagher. And it wouldn’t hurt to meet the man face-to-face, he supposed, even if it did mean traveling to Ireland. God help him.
He listened, nodding to himself, then grinning when Trevor sang the lyrics. His friend had a strong voice, and still an easy one. But the words needed a female. Nigel recognized it at once.
I’ll have your hand
I’ll have your heart
I’ll have them all together.
For if you think I’ll settle for part,
Prepare for stormy weather.
Yes, a woman’s song, confident, even arrogant and sexy.
He opened his eyes again, and grinned as Trevor played it out. He wasn’t an easy sell, but his foot was tapping before the song was done.
“The man’s a fucking genius,” Nigel declared. “ Simple, straightforward lyrics in a tangle of complicated notes. Not everyone can sing that one and punch it.”
“No, but I have someone in mind who can. Make arrangements for Ardmore, Nigel.”
Nigel took a pull on the designer water that was never beyond arm’s reach. “If I must, I must. Now, is that the bulk of the business on our slate this afternoon?”
“The bulk, yes. Why?”
“Because I’d like to know, as an old and trusted friend, just what’s crawling around under your skin. You’re nervy, Trev, and it’s not usual for you.”
He didn’t like that it showed, was going to make damn sure it didn’t before he saw Darcy again. “There’s a woman.”
“Son, there’s always a woman.”
“Not like this one. I brought her with me.”
“Oh, did you now? That’s a new one.” Each word was stretched long and full of meaning. “And when do I get to have a look at her?”
Trevor sat again, ordered himself to relax. “Come to Ardmore,” he said and directed the conversation back to business.
ELEVEN
SHE WASN’T QUITE sure how to play it, and it did seem like being onstage. Should she be sitting in the splendor of the parlor having tea or a cocktail when Trevor returned? Or would it be more casual and sophisticated if she were up in the sitting room, passing the time with a book?
Perhaps she should take a walk and not be there at all.
In the end, not being sure of the lines or motivations of the character she appeared to be playing, Darcy prepared to dress for the evening. She took her time about it, and that was a luxury itself. Having buckets of time to loll in the bath, to make use of the lovely scented creams that were set about in antique bottles.
Better to be ready, she decided as she smoothed the silky lotion on her legs, and avoid any awkwardness of just how and where the two of them were going to dress for dinner. Sex, as she saw it, was the final act in today’s play, and she had to admit she was both eager for and nervous about the performance.
Yes, much wiser to meet him in the sophisticated mode, wearing the little black dress. She would indeed go down, have a cocktail, so when he came in she would be sitting in that almost terrifyingly formal parlor, all sort of lady-of-the-manorish.
Winthrup would probably serve little canapeÉs—or did the butler do that? Well, no matter. She could offer him one as if she did such things every day.
That was just how to play the part.
When scented and polished, she stepped out of the bath to the bedroom just as Trevor stepped in from the hall, her stomach did a shaky flip. Time to ad-lib, she thought and put on her best smile.
“Well, hello, there. I thought you’d be another hour or more.”
“I finished up early today.” He kept his eyes on hers as he closed the door behind him. “And how was your day?”
“Lovely, thank you.” Why couldn’t she get her legs to move? It would be far better if she could just stroll across the room. “I hope yours was successful.”
“It was worth the trip.”
As he stepped forward, she managed to shove herself away from the door, moved to the little table where she’d laid the bracelet. “I want to thank you for this. It’s beautiful, and extravagant, which is nearly as important. We both know I shouldn’t accept it.”
He closed the distance between them and, taking the bracelet, circled it around her wrist. “And we both know you will.” He fastened it with a quiet click that echoed in her head.
“I suppose we do. I’ve a hard time resisting the beautiful and extravagant.”
“Why resist?” Firmly, possessively, he laid his hands on her shoulders, ran them down the arms of her robe. “I don’t intend to.”
It wasn’t the way he’d planned it. He’d imagined it all very civilized. Drinks, then the sort of elegant dinner she’d enjoy, a quiet ride home, then a smooth, practiced seduction that would please them both.
But here she was, in that long robe, her skin warm and fragrant from her bath, her eyes wary and watchful.
Why resist?
His gaze held hers as he loosened the tie of her robe. He watched the heat flicker in that deep, deep blue, heard the quick and quiet catch of her breath. Lowering his mouth to hers, he captured that breath, skimmed his hands under the thin material to trail his fingers up and down her sides.
“Now.” He murmured it, surprised that he had to fight off a shudder at just the touch of his fingertips to her flesh.
“Well, then.” She let her body have its way, lifted her arms around him.
He meant to go slowly, to savor, to take them both up level by level. B
ut the moment her mouth answered his, the instant her body pressed to his, greed swallowed him. It was as if he’d been waiting his whole life to taste this, to touch this, to have this.
He jerked the robe off her shoulders and set his teeth on her.
She gave a muffled cry, both pleasure and shock. In that flash of heat, she forgot all about role playing, motivation, consequences. Desperate for more, she tugged at his jacket, yanked and pulled until it was in a heap on the floor. His mouth was savaging hers, her hands dragging at his tie as they stumbled to the bed.
Light going dim with evening poured through the windows, and the busy sounds of London traffic swished and coughed on the street below. The grand clock in the hall struck the hour of five. Then the only sound in the room were gasps and murmurs.
She rolled with him over the luxurious duvet, sinking in, sliding over. Her fingers fought with the buttons of his shirt, and his pulled her robe aside. The weight of him pushed her deep into the covers, like sinking into clouds of silk, she thought, then he took her breast in his mouth and she didn’t think at all.
Fire and light and the sharp saber points of desire, the wild, unsteady roll of sheer lust. It filled her, and burned in the blood, and pushed a raw cry of delight from her throat.
“Hurry.” She all but chanted it. “Hurry, hurry, hurry.” She’d die without him inside her. Frantically she struggled with the hook of his trousers.
His fingers shook. The roar in his head was a thousand waves pounding on a thousand rocks. All he knew was that to wait a moment longer would destroy him.
Her hips arched toward him, and he drove into her in one violent thrust.
Their twin groans rippled the air, and their eyes met— shock mirroring shock. For a heartbeat, then two, they stared at each other.
Then it was all movement, a frantic mating driven by hot blood. Flesh against flesh, the ragged strain of quickened breath, the low cry of a woman at peak. Bodies plunged together in a slick and sensuous dance.
She came again, staggered that there could be so much, so very much. As her hands slid limply onto the rumpled covers, she felt him fall with her. And thought he said her name.
She lay still, wrecked, wonderfully wrecked, with his face buried in her hair and his long, lovely body pressing hers into the bed. Now she knew, she thought, just what happened when his control snapped. And oh, it was a wild and marvelous thing.
His heart still hammered, she could feel it knocking against hers. Drifting on that gilded plateau of contentment, she turned her head and skimmed her lips over his shoulder.
That one gesture had him opening his eyes, struggling to clear his head again. She seemed soft as water under him, limp as melted wax and nothing like the frenzied woman who’d urged him to hurry. He knew he’d have taken her fast and hard in any case. He’d never needed anything, anyone, the way he’d needed Darcy at that moment. As if his very survival depended upon it.
A dangerous woman, he thought. And found he didn’t give a damn. He wanted her again. And again.
“Don’t go to sleep,” he murmured.
“I’m not.” But her voice was thick and rough and at the sound of it his blood heated once more. “I’m just considerably relaxed.” She opened her eyes and pondered the plasterwork of scrolls and stars on the ceiling. “And enjoying the view.”
“Late eighteenth century.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Amused, she stretched under him like a cat, then ran her hands over his back, more for her pleasure than his. “Would that be Georgian or rococo? I never can keep my historical periods straight.”