Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (3 page)

“I don't know who you are or what you think you're doing, but I'll see that you're struck from Cassandra's client list. You'll never get another researcher down here ever again, I promise you that! So your precious Lord Draycott can just kiss off any other restoration projects he might have in mind. Believe me, when I'm done, you won't be able to find a restorer in Timbuktu who'd work here!”

The man's only answer was a sardonic smile. In horrified silence, Kacey watched his long fingers drop to his belt.

A deep red blush stained her pale cheeks. “Just what in the name of hell do you think you're doing now?” she demanded.

The slate eyes narrowed. His belt slid free with a soft hiss, darkly intimate in the confined space of the stall. “Doing, my dear? Why, I'm getting ready to screw you, of course.”

T
HE SILVER EYES NARROWED
,
smoldering. “That
is
how you say it on your side of the Atlantic, is it not? If you can supply a better word, of course I'd be happy to use it.” His hard fingers tossed the belt to the stable floor. “I don't believe I've ever had an American before. I find I'm rather looking forward to the experience.”

White-hot fury exploded through Kacey's veins. None of this could actually be happening, could it?

But the tingling of her lips where his mouth had savaged hers told Kacey this was no dream. The urgent tension of her skin, clamoring for more of his heat, told her the same thing.

She pushed unsteadily to her knees, brushing wildly at the errant bits of straw clinging to her hair and face. “Now just wait one damn minute! You can't really believe—” Her voice died away sharply when she saw his fingers fall to his zipper.

“We can discuss your terms later. Of course they will depend on just how well you…perform for me.”

Kacey's heart slammed against her chest. “Perform!
T-terms!
” she croaked. Her breath was coming in jerky little gusts now. “Listen—this is some kind of joke, right? You can't possibly believe that—”

Wide-eyed, she stared at the place where his hands worked. The fabric was stretched taut, she saw.

The realization of just why it was so tight sent a wave of crimson shooting through Kacey's cheeks and neck.

Her heart was hammering so loudly she could barely hear. “Well, you—you can just take your fine title, your expensive car, and your fancy belt and—and—stow them where you sit!”

His only answer was a dry chuckle.

And then, with a sharp metallic snap, his zipper slid free.

Kacey's eyes fixed in horrified fascination on that tight square of charcoal wool. “You—you wouldn't
dare!
You couldn't—”

Hard, work-callused fingers began to pull the zipper.

Down.

Lower and lower.

The fabric parted slowly, inch by inch, to reveal more bronzed skin, sprinkled with springy black hair.

Hungry skin. All aroused male.

Kacey's tongue was wedged in her mouth. Her pulse was out of control. That's when it hit her.

There was nothing beneath the cloth—nothing but taut bronzed skin and a mat of dark hair, a denser version of that shadowing his open collar.

And in a few more seconds he would—

Suddenly the man's fingers went still. “You
are
the call girl I phoned for, aren't you?”

Kacey's eyes widened. A firestorm of fury ripped through her at his cold question. Dear God, he thought she was a—

She took a ragged breath, focusing her fury on his mocking eyes. Even now she found it difficult to forget that tantalizing V of bronzes skin beneath his hard fingers.

“Get this through your thick skull because I'll tell you only once,” she hissed. “I'm an art restorer, damn it! Cassandra Edwards sent me to see Lord Draycott. About a project
he
requested.”

The man's eyes narrowed, running thoughtfully over her heaving breasts, noting the taut nipples clearly outlined against the fine lawn of her shirt.

Exquisite, Nicholas Draycott decided. And even more dangerous than he'd thought.

Almost too damn hot to handle.

Almost,
he told himself grimly. “What sort of project?” he drawled, clearly skeptical. “A project of Edward Armistead's perhaps?”

“I'm not at liberty to discuss it,” Kacey countered. “Only with Lord Draycott.”

The slate-gray eyes narrowed. “Indeed. Only with Lord Draycott, is it? Well, I'm afraid he's busy. As his estate manager, I'm the one you'll have to deal with.”

“You
were
his estate manager,” Kacey hissed. “When I'm done with you, no one will even open a door to you.”

“So, the little cat has claws, does it?” Draycott moved closer. “At least we're getting down to the truth.”

“Call Cassandra, if you doubt my word. Or call that bloody procuress in London and—”

“Procuress. How quaint.”

“Oh, I'm sure
you
know all the proper terms. Having never had dealings in such things before, I confess to complete and total ignorance on that score. My work is rather different, you see. It's honest work. Work performed out of love rather than greed.”

“You—an art restorer? Come, come, my dear.” His mocking words hit her like a knife. “When was an artisan ever so lovely? So seductively packaged? No, no, let's just dispense with the charade, shall we? I didn't ask for any particular erotic fantasy. I thought I made that very clear to your employer. Simple sex, that's all I require. Maybe later we can try something more—”

Kacey threw back her head and screamed. The gambit had always been useful in silencing her younger siblings when their bickering reached intolerable proportions.

It had the same effect on the Englishman now.

“Now you listen to me, you—you bacon-brained, boneheaded
pile of horse dung.” At least she had his complete attention, Kacey thought.

“A mixed metaphor to say the least,” he said dryly. “Obviously, English isn't your strong suit.”

“No,
art
is, damn you! Now are you going to move back and let me out of here or not? Lord Draycott,” she added a moment later, crossing her arms mutinously at her chest.

“Didn't fool you, eh? What a pity.” His keen eyes scoured her face. “And the answer's no. Not on your goddamn life, Miss K. C. Mallory.”

Kacey's lips tightened as she fought to salvage her rapidly splintering control. Suddenly she went very still, a plan creeping into her head. An outrageous plan. Something entirely out of character.

And then Kacey found herself smiling, a tiny smile that began at the corners of her generous mouth and worked up to glint from her jade eyes. Yes, it would be the perfect thing. And she would get her look at the Whistler, too.

Slowly, she sat back in the straw, studying him through lowered lashes.
Careful now, Katherine Chelsea,
she told herself.
This man's no fool.

Her tongue gently swept her upper lip.

Lord Draycott's silver-gray eyes narrowed, fixed on the sight. “What the devil—”

He never had time to finish. His breath caught in a rush as the woman in the straw smiled up at him with wanton promise.

Her upper lip was too full. Her forehead was too wide, her neck too long. She had straw scattered all over her hair, for God's sake, Draycott told himself sternly.

And in spite of that she was blindingly beautiful. So beautiful it made him ache.

The sight of her smile was like a fifty-thousand-volt electric current plugged directly into his heart.

Or into his groin, to be more precise.

Her slim fingers moved to the top of her shirt and slipped the first button free.

Slowly. Teasingly. With total awareness of the infinite torture it was causing him.

Draycott growled a curse.

His jade-eyed temptress merely smiled and moved on to the next button.

Suddenly Draycott was on fire, in a way he hadn't been for months. With a pain that had nothing to do with burns or reconstructive surgery.

It was a fire of wanting, of needing. A fire for total possession.

Just as he had possessed this woman long before.

Nicholas frowned, wondering where that crazy thought had come from. Perhaps he was farther gone than he'd realized, cooped up here in the country. Yes, maybe this idea of paid companionship was something he should have considered sooner.

Then his lips twisted in distaste. It was always for payment anyway. There was invariably a price—it was simply paid in different ways.

And then his mind went blank, for the woman's hand was at mid-chest and a pink expanse of skin mocked him along the faint shadow between her breasts.

Two buttons more, Draycott found himself thinking. His breath was coming strangely heavy now, and the pain at his groin didn't even bear thinking about.

The woman smiled slowly, her head tilting back. Showing him she knew damn well what she was doing. And was enjoying the effect thoroughly.

“How do you like my performance so far?” Kacey murmured huskily, her voice as rich and textured as the erotic current flowing between them.

To Draycott's infinite disgust, he had to clear his throat before
he could answer. “Just—fine. But I think I'll suspend judgment…until I've seen everything you're offering.”

Strange, he thought absently—her hand seemed to quiver for a moment at his words. But then the next button slipped free, and he forgot everything but how the full upper swell of her breasts beckoned, gently shadowed in the growing twilight of the stable.

Dear God, don't stop now,
Draycott found himself praying, only to tamp down the thought a moment later. It was never meant to go this far, after all. Just far enough to scare her off.

And to see that she scared off anyone else with similar plans.

Only now, with her before him like this, half-clothed, her smile warm and inviting, Nicholas was finding it hard to breathe, much less to think clearly.

“Oh, you'll like it,” the woman whispered, rising slowly to her feet. Deeply V-ed, the white fabric strained against her breasts, lovingly cupping the lush curves beneath.

Draycott felt beads of sweat break out on his brow. “Perhaps we should discuss terms now, after all,” he muttered, unable to tear his eyes away from that erotic shadow.

From the dusky, upthrust nipples tormentingly outlined against the thin lawn.

“Oh, not yet, surely. I've so much more to show you, my lord. And you
will
show me that pretty painting of yours in return, won't you? I've heard so much about it.” Kacey managed a husky giggle. “I just can't wait to tell all my friends I've seen it!” Her fingers slipped lower, tugging the white shirt free of the waist-band of her jeans.

Draycott had to struggle to hear anything she was saying. Painting? Good sweet Jesus, she was the painting! A perfect Botticelli masterpiece. He could look at her forever, he thought dimly.

“You do remember the painting,” Kacey prompted, her voice a sultry caress. “In the long gallery, isn't it?”

“The painting,” he repeated mechanically. “On the fourth floor.” He had to tell her to stop, Nicholas thought.

He had to tell her
not
to stop.

Her full mouth curved in a blinding smile, and the sight was like a shaft of sunlight plunged right into his heart.

He wanted to see her smile like that always, the Englishman thought. When she awoke, her hair tousled on his pillow. When he slipped off her clothes and plunged deep inside her.

When he felt her convulse in wild, breathless passion beneath him, whispering his name.

Dear God, what was wrong with him? Had he lost the last ragged shreds of his sanity?

“Now you listen to me, young lady,” Draycott began, feeling priggish and a complete fool.

She didn't listen.

Instead, her slim hands drifted down to the last, tantalizing button of her shirt. A secret smile on her face, she began to inch toward him. “Oh, I'm listening, my lord. You have my total attention, I assure you.”

Draycott couldn't have moved even if the stables were on fire and the roof falling on his head.

Which in a way, they were, at least as far as his screaming senses were concerned.

Her eyes challenging, the beautiful intruder slipped past him. One hand trailing across his tensed shoulders, she teased the bunched muscles at his neck. The faint scent of gardenias rose from her warm skin, inundating his senses. Tightening muscles already taut past enduring.

She was all woman—all soft, yielding desire. She was the fire that lit his restless nights, the dream that tormented his lonely days.

His breath hissed out with the nearness of her. He felt her slip around him, then draw close to his back. He was on fire with wanting her; he was driven by an infinite need to touch her.

In every way that a man had ever touched a woman—and then some.

He was—

Falling?

With his next heartbeat, Draycott was spinning down, his legs kicked straight out from under him. Gasping, he hit the cold cobblestone floor, breaking his fall with knees and wrists. What in the name of bloody everlasting hell?

He cursed harshly, struggling to stand, fighting the raw agony radiating from his kneecaps. He was still cursing when he heard the doors to the stall slam shut behind him. With a sharp thump, a piece of wood was wedged between the handles on the outside of the door.