Cheryl Holt (46 page)

“Good.”

“I better have that bath. Or I’ll never get it done.”

“Would you like me to wash you?”

“Wench!” he chided, grinning, but he abruptly sobered. “Actually, I don’t think so. I need a few minutes to myself.” Mystified, confused, he asked, “Am I crazy?”

“No. It’s been quite a day.”

“Yes, it has.” Briefly, it appeared that he might expound, but as she’d discovered, his revelations were saved for the wee hours. “You don’t mind?” he probed.

“Go on.” She assisted him to his feet and waved him toward the door, snatching a kiss as he passed by.

As he went about his business, she tended to her own, slipping into black stockings and mules, a sheer black robe. Checking her reflection in the mirror, she liked what she saw and decided to don nothing more. A hint of her nipples was defined through the thin fabric, and the middle of her torso was visible, showing her cushion of woman’s hair, and a flash of smooth thigh, that added highlight and intrigue to the seductiveness.

On their bed, she fluffed the pillows, then reclined. The door to the dressing room was ajar, and she caught sporadic glimpses of Michael leaned back, his arms balanced on the edges of the tub. The familiarity of his motions should have been soothing—the water lapping, the washcloth rubbing over his skin—and she shut her eyes but couldn’t calm herself.

Craving distraction, she picked up the portfolio of illustrations Abigail had given her. Avidly, she perused each picture, lingering over his various nude positions, assessing the width of his shoulders, the tuck of his waist, the curve of his rear. The representations were so lifelike; she felt she could jump into the drawings and tarry with him at will.

One, in particular, was mesmerizing. Spread out on a daybed, an arm casually bent behind his head, he was aroused, his phallus elongated and potent, and his fist was
loosely clutched around it. Arrogant, imperious, intent on gratification, he focused resolutely, his body strained, as though he was expecting a lover who would eagerly service him in any fashion he demanded.’

Had a woman been present when the picture was sketched? The notion had her recalling the other instances when she’d seen him engaged in ribald behavior, and she couldn’t refrain from recollecting how riveting they had been. How improper. How utterly thrilling and wanton. Perfect musings, for the perfect wedding night.

Michael was climbing out of the tub, drying himself. “You’re awfully quiet in there,” he mentioned. “Are you all right?”

She couldn’t help smiling. “I’m just doing a little light reading.”

“I’ve got plans for you, so don’t become too engrossed.”

“Too late.” She ran the tip of her finger across the shape of his cock. It was an odd tactile sensation, as if she was really touching him, and it made her completely wild to experience the genuine article.

What was it about nudity, about indecency and vice, that had such a stunning effect on her character? There was something so marvelously inappropriate about studying displays that she oughtn’t to witness, or espying scenes she was never meant to view. Once she encountered a licentious spectacle, she couldn’t prevent herself from wanting to see more.

“My goodness . . .” Just as he set foot in the room, she flipped to the next portrait—a bodily profile that flawlessly outlined his jutting cock. “I’d always heard that things like this went on in Paris, but I never believed any of the stories.”

“What about Paris?” He filled another glass of champagne, then approached the bed, savoring the sparkling liquid. “I grew up there, remember?”

“Oh, yes. I remember.”

“I’d like to take you visiting sometime, when the national upset is ended.”

Garbed only in a towel, swathed at the waist, his eyes were tinted to a more absorbing shade. Smelling clean and manly, like soap and heat, his skin was damp, the tips of his hair curly from the steamy water. His crotch bulging deliciously, he was sin and iniquity swaddled in a dark blue package.

“What do you have there?” he inquired.

“A belated wedding gift from Abigail.” She examined him carefully. “Turn sideways, would you?”

Unsuspecting, he complied without pondering her request.

“Drop your towel.”

He started to, then stopped, the peculiarity sinking in. “Why?”

Endeavoring to keep a straight face, she glanced at the drawing, then dragged her torrid attention to those private parts that never ceased to intrigue and captivate her. “You’ve matured well over the past decade, but I want to compare.”

“What are you talking about?”

Just then, he detected her treasure, and she prankishly shoved the stack under her hip, striving to hide it but not succeeding. Giggling, she scooted across the bed, but he leapt onto the mattress and pinned her down before she could escape. His hips pressed into her, his cock swelling ample and solid against her leg.

“Let me see!”

“No.”

Playfully, he wrestled her prize into the open and, when he yanked it from her, there was no doubt that he recognized it for what it was. For once, he was rendered speechless. Mortified, too. A red flush initiated down low and swept up his chest and onto his cheeks.

He was aghast. “Where did you get these?”

“From Abigail.”

Issuing a strangled groan, he rolled off her and onto his back, throwing an arm over his face. Chagrined, he stared toward the ceiling for a lengthy interval, then his elbow
rose, and he peeked out at her. “Did she look at them?”

“Only number six.” Snuggling over his chest, she hauled his arm away, and kissed him. “She thinks you have a cute bottom.”

That strangled wail recurred. “James will murder me if he finds out. You’ll be a widow.”

“So I gather.” She winked. “Your unique male beauty will remain Abigail’s and my special secret.”

“I’ll never be able to go to supper at their house again. She’ll constantly be assessing my rear.”

“Probably.” Considering his recurrent, dubious antics with women, it was charming that he could be so easily embarrassed. “You’re very sexy in these. Young, too. You realize that we
older
women are extremely fascinated by younger men, don’t you?”

“I’ve created a monster.” As this was not the initial circumstance in which he’d made the point, he sighed. Resigned, he spun on top of her, trapping her to the mattress once more. “What will you do with them?”

“I guess I’ll have them framed and hung in my boudoir, so I can gaze at them whenever I’m in the mood.”

“Jezebel.” He dipped under her chin and nipped at her nape. “Strumpet.”

“You know how much I like to watch.” She batted her lashes. “I learned from the master.”

“And I suppose that’s another topic of which I’ll never hear the end.”

“Maybe in forty or fifty years,” she repeated.

“How wonderful”—he smiled at her, the power of it dazzling to behold—“to have you whispering in my ear all that time.”

He took the collection and laid it on the stand next to the bed. Then, he rotated across the mattress, bringing her with him until she was on top. Her sex hovering eagerly over his, she braced herself on one arm, staring down at him as he sprawled against the white bedcoverings.

His mat of alluring chest hair begged to be stroked, causing her nerves to quiver and tingle. His tempting mouth—
that had simply been made for kissing—enticed her to sample. During their wrestling, his towel had come free, and his nether regions were exposed, cajoling her to look, to taste, to touch.

“Who needs to watch,” he indicated, “when you can enjoy the real thing for yourself?” Taking her hand, he stroked it across the pebbled bump of his nipple.

“My thoughts exactly.”

Stretching and purring like a contented cat, she splayed her fingers and rubbed in slow circles, feeling his heart thundering beneath her palm.

Suddenly ablaze, expectant, and wild with her desire for him, she tugged off her robe and tossed it on the floor.

Love Lessons

CHERYL HOLT

A resolute spinster at twenty-five, Abigail Weston is nonetheless determined to see her cherished younger sister wed to a man of Quality. But Abigail’s lack of experience with the opposite sex means that she cannot allay her sister’s fears about the marriage bed—unless she takes bold steps to learn what the intimacy between a man and a woman entails. Yet the one man in London qualified to teach her awakens temptation Abigail never anticipated—to experience each whispered pleasure for herself...

“Ms. Holt’s fine tale is carefully woven and
crafted, rich in every detail and reminiscent of
the genre’s masters...this book is a must!”
—Romantic Times
on
MY ONLY LOVE

“Vibrant characters and eventful plotting kept
me involved from page one. Cheryl Holt is a
fresh new voice in historical romance that is
truly delightful. Bravo!”
—Affaire de Coeur
on
MY ONLY LOVE

Available wherever books are sold
from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

LOVE 2/02

T
EMPT
M
E
T
WICE

B
ARBARA
D
AWSON
S
MITH

New York Times
Bestselling Author of
R
OMANCING THE
R
OGUE

A rogue shrouded in mystery, Lord Gabriel Kenyon returns from abroad to find himself guardian of Kate Talisford, the girl he had betrayed four years earlier. Now sworn to protect her, he fights his attraction to the spirited young woman. Although Kate wants nothing to do with the scoundrel who had once scorned her, Gabriel is the only man who can help her recover a priceless artifact stolen from her late father. On a quest to outwit a murderous villain, she soon discovers her true adventure lies with Gabriel himself, a seducer whose tempting embrace offers an irresistible challenge—to uncover his secrets and claim his heart forever...

“Barbara Dawson Smith is wonderful!”
—
Affaire de Coeur

“Barbara Dawson Smith makes magic.”
—
Romantic Times

Available wherever books are sold
from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

TEMP 2/02

HEART
of a
LION

HILLARY FIELDS
Author of
The Maiden’s Revenge

She had once been a beautiful noblewoman called Lady Isabeau, betrothed at birth to the handsome squire Jared de Navarre. But all that changed when the Crusades began, and Isabeau was abducted, transported to the torrid climes of the Mideast, and sold... Jared had journeyed east, vowing to stay until he found his lady... but there his hopes died and his heart hardened. Now called the Black Lion, he was a fierce mercenary, about to begin a dangerous mission in the employ of a mysterious black-veiled renegade warrior... Jared never guessed that Isabeau had survived, fleeing the erotic realms of a harem to become this legendary desert rebel. And as death and betrayal swirl around them, their chance for love may be destroyed...unless they learn that fighting for each other is the most important battle of all...

“Hillary Fields is a fresh new voice
that brings a heap of fire and
sensuality to sizzle your senses.”

—
The Belles and Beaux of Romance

Available wherever books are sold
from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

LION 2/02

Fantasy
Lover

S
HERRILYN
K
ENYON

Dear Reader,

Being cursed into a book as a love-slave for eternity can ruin even a Spartan warrior’s day. As a love-slave, I knew everything about women. How to touch them, how to savor them, and most of all how to pleasure them. But when I was summoned to fulfill Grace Alexander’s sexual fantasies, I found the first woman in history who saw me as a man with a tormented past. She, alone, bothered to take me out of the bedroom and into the world. She taught me to love again.

But I was not born to know love. I was cursed to walk eternity alone. Yet now I have found Grace—the one thing my wounded heart cannot survive without. Sure, love can heal all wounds, but can it break a two-thousand-year-old curse?

Julian of Macedon

“Fun, fresh, and fabulous! Sherrilyn Kenyon’s
imagination is as bright as her future.”
—Teresa Medeiros, author of
A KISS TO REMEMBER

“By turns funny and touching,
Fantasy Lover
is a
compelling story that will make you laugh out loud.
The gods haven’t been this much fun since Xena!”
—Susan Krinard, author of
SECRET OF THE WOLF

Available wherever books are sold
from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

FANT 2/02