Authors: Blush
Jack had just decided to wander over and crash the party when Ward McHenry, the Featherstone's trust officer, rose from the couch where he'd been sitting and pointedly cleared his throat. According to Jack's research, the distinguished head of Featherstone, Inc., was in his fifties, but McHenry's bristly Kennedyesque copper hair, arresting blue eyes, and ruddy complexion made him look ten years younger.
"Dear friends," he said congenially, "might I have your attention for a moment? I was planning to save my news until dinner, but I find that I can't wait to share it. A moment? Please?"
The crowd obliged, and the pianist stopped playing as well.
McHenry picked up his martini glass as if to make a toast. "You all know about the recent ordeal one of the members of this family had to endure. Our own Augusta— Gus, as she prefers—was kidnapped and held hostage by radicals hoping to further their misguided cause. But let's not dwell on the negative. A tragedy was averted, and that's part of the reason we're here tonight—to celebrate Gus's safe return. "
He acknowledged Gus with a quick nod, though his interest clearly lay in regaling the larger audience. "I must tell you all that my eyes have been opened by this— Gus's—ordeal. If any good can be said to come of such a thing, it's in how our perceptions are altered, how our thinking is expanded. It was both frightening and sobering for me to discover firsthand that this could happen to any of us, that we are all vulnerable to the political agenda of any terrorist group whose radical cause is currently in fashion. That's why Gus's heroism must not go unremarked upon. By foiling the terrorists with her courageous escape, she has struck a blow for personal freedom. "
He paused, letting them all absorb this. "Some of us are charged with overseeing the industry that feeds and clothes and houses this country of ours. Gus has sent a message that we will not be used. We will not be victimized. And tonight we thank her for that, because we are all safer for it. "
The guests' reactions were subdued. Gus was not a big favorite among them, Jack realized; however, she had prevailed against the avowed enemies of big business, or so they thought, and that alone would predispose them to be gracious.
"Life, " McHenry went on, "devises many ways to test us while we're here, and Gus has triumphed in that regard. That's why, as trust officer for the Featherstone estate, I'm delighted to be able to say that the purposes for which the trust was created have all been fulfilled, and I am hereby exercising my discretionary power as trustee to authorize distribution of the entire trust estate to her at any time she decrees—for a business venture that is dear to her heart, I might add. "
Jack stole a glance at Gus and saw that she'd gone pale. She stared at McHenry, breathless, bloodless, rapt, while the flute tilting in her hands sprinkled champagne on her red shoes.
Oblivious, McHenry droned on. "My dear friend and business partner, the late Lake, Sr., insisted that the purpose of the trust could be considered fulfilled only if his children demonstrated the vision, courage, and moral fiber to carry through on a business venture. Gus has done all that, in my opinion. "
He held up his glass. "A woman of her mettle deserves a chance to make every success of herself, and we—the family and I—are pleased to be able to give her that opportunity. "
"Hear, hear!" someone called out.
Everyone raised their glasses but Jack. Somewhere in the course of McHenry's rambling discourse, he had begun to understand what was going on. He almost laughed aloud. This was what the kidnapping scheme had been about. There'd been some nebulous special condition governing Gus's trust fund, and to shake the money loose from McHenry's clutches, she'd had to do something extreme, something so spectacular and so public he couldn't ignore it. He'd been right that she wanted publicity, but wrong about the reasons for it.
Gus had recovered from her shock, but she was still clearly astonished at the announcement. And delighted. Her smile was bright enough to outsparkle the chandeliers as she accepted the good wishes of those around her.
The rest of the Featherstones reacted with ambivalence, Jack noted. Lily, in particular, seemed disconcerted. Lake gamely held forth as jovial host, but Jack had noticed that he was particularly solicitous of his natural sister during McHenry's announcement. He'd gone quietly to stand by Lily's side, and they had exchanged a glance that told Jack the Featherstones were not exempt when it came to family secrets.
Webb Calderon raised his champagne glass. "Tell us more about that business venture, Gus. What are you going to do, start your own modeling agency?"
Gus laughed, clearly startled. "No, quite the opposite. My goals are twofold, really, and one of them I'd intended to pursue with as little fanfare as possible, because it involves a very sensitive issue, my late stepsister's death. "
A quick glance at Lake and Lily apparently warned Gus that she should follow her instincts. The twins weren't pleased. Lily's hand had flown to an ornate, jeweled broach at her throat, and Lake had stepped forward as if he might intervene.
Gus stumbled over the next few words and then began again. "Let me just say that I'm planning to start a foundation in my late stepsister's name to fund research on the insidious disease that killed her. No one should have to die as Jillian did, and as thousands of other women do every year-—young women, teenagers, mere girls. "
She whisked up her champagne flute with a hint of bravado, and her smile returned, as potent as the wine. "The project I
can
talk about is a magazine I'm planning to launch. But it won't be a fashion magazine, at least not like anything you've ever seen before. The focus will be personal style. I want women everywhere to know that we don't have to let Madison Avenue enslave us with their concept of the perfect woman. We can define that for ourselves, each of us, individually, in terms of what's perfect for us. "
The glass shot high in the air, a salute. "I want women to discover their own look, even if it's boxer shorts—"
A pale pink streak of light stopped Gus short.
"Aunt Gus!" the streak squealed, slowing only long enough to let Gus set down her glass before she bounded into her surprised arms. The last of the Featherstones had arrived, Jack realized. This must be five-year-old Bridget.
As he watched Gus and the little girl together, he became aware of his deepening respiration. It seemed to take forever to fill his lungs. Bridget was about the age that his daughter would have been if she'd lived.
"Where is he?" the child was demanding to know. She was wearing what looked like pink ballet leotards and matching satin slippers on her feet. Her blond curls bounced as she twisted in Gus's arms. "Where is he, Gus? Show me!"
"Who?" Gus asked.
"The man you married, of course! He's my uncle, right?"
"I'm right here," Jack said. His laughter had traces of sadness that even he could hear as he walked over to Bridget.
The little girl wrinkled her nose, scrutinizing him as he approached her. Even at five there was a slightly imperious quality about her that told Jack she was already taking her cues from Gus, a brat-in-training, but an incredibly cute one. His arm almost ached to tousle her blond curls so badly.
Bridget stared up at him, her eyes as intensely blue as her aunt's were violet. "Are you mean?" she asked.
"Very."
She barely cracked a smile. "I don't believe you."
"Believe him," Gus murmured.
"I think I should have dinner with you, " she announced to Jack. "Then you can get to know me better. "
"Darling, no, " Lily intervened, speaking to Bridget from across the room. "This is a dinner party for adults. "
Lake spoke up as he joined Gus and Jack. "No, Lily, I think Bridget's right. Bridget should join us. " With a reassuring smile all around, he assumed the role of family peacemaker. "After all, it's a celebration of Gus's return... and her marriage. "
Bridget beamed and gave Lake a thumbs-up sign. But Gus didn't seem to know how to respond, which intrigued Jack.
"Very well." Lily sighed nervously, clearly reluctant about something. She turned to the housekeeper, who didn't seem to like the idea, either, and was glaring at Jack quite pointedly, as if he were the cause of all the confusion.
"Frances," Lily said, "would you see that Bridget tidies up a bit. Perhaps you could persuade her to change from those leotards she wears night and day into some real clothes? Then you can bring her in to join us. "
"Leotards
are
real clothes," Bridget was quick to inform Lily. "And if I can't wear them, then I want to wear my Swan Lake outfit. Can I, Gus? Can I, please? I'm going to be Odette, the white swan, in the recital. "
Gus set her charge down. "You can wear the tutu, but leave all that headgear off, okay? Or there won't be room for you at the table. "
As Bridget scampered off with Frances, and the others filed off to the dining room, Jack noticed that Gus was smoothing her clingy red sheath and lingering as if she might want to speak to him alone.
"Cute kid," he said. "She's heavily into ballet?"
"Lives and breathes it." Her tone was droll. "I indulge her because I know she's lonely. She has friends at school, but none around here, and the modeling has kept me away so much. "
"I guess that will all change now, with the magazine?"
"Yes... yes, it will."
They had begun to walk toward the double doors, and Jack was again aware of the hot peppermint waves rolling off her and the sway of her slender hips. He had a vivid flashback of her exposed bottom as she pranced into their desert shower stall, and the image sent a hard jolt of desire through him. It almost made him weak.
"Congratulations by the way," he said. "I guess the trust fund money should set you up nicely?"
"Yes, thanks." She nodded, clearly not anxious to talk about the business venture of her heart. "By the way, do you ride?"
He grinned and poked a tongue in his cheek. "You know I do." The snap in her eyes told him she didn't appreciate his attempt at kinky humor, and that he had just squandered whatever good will had been established because of Bridget.
"Horses," she said tersely.
"Oh... horses. Sure, them too."
"Tomorrow then?" she said. "Eight o'clock. Bring your training wheels."
She returned his nod with a brisk one of her own and strode off ahead without waiting for him to answer. She didn't seem to care in the slightest that she was leaving her new husband in the dust.
The wilder the pony, the finer the horse, Jack thought, remembering the adage as he watched her sashay down the Grand Hall, a sexy red chess piece against the black-and-white checkered floor. "I'll bring my riding crop, too, " he murmured, "just in case the need arises. "
Chapter 15
In her dream she was ready for him... aching, quivering, ready. He had come up behind her, and he was touching her, running his hands lightly over her flanks as if she were a trembling animal, a skittish horse he was preparing to mount. He wasn't the kind of man who would use a saddle. He would want nothing between his flesh and the horse's. He would ride bareback with his weight bearing down on her spine, his powerful thighs holding her captive.
His murmurs were dulcet, meant to gentle her. His hands felt like heaven on her sensitive, shuddering skin. Heaven with a little bit of hell mixed in. She caught the scent of him as he bent over her. It was a warm male smell, like brandy laced with spices. Delicious. She breathed him in like air. And then suddenly he was mounting her, riding her, and she could feel his hand resting on her rump, his fingers a lightning rod to the nerves in her rippling skin.
She shivered and her legs grew languid. A sensation of pleasure fanned through her, filling her with such flowing warmth she couldn't seem to move as he wanted her to. His hand fluttered caressingly, urging her on, but she couldn't run... she couldn't. It was too wonderful. She was too weak.
Suddenly his mouth was at her nape, and his spicy breath was washing her skin as well as her senses. "Take me, " he was murmuring. "Take me for a ride, beautiful animal, let me sit here astride you, let me ride you a little longer, just a little longer, don't stop now. "
The pressure of his hand deepened, sending an odd thrill through the sparkling nerves in its path. Her legs didn't want to hold her. They wanted to fold and let her drop to the soft, welcoming ground. Her muscles yearned to give way, but her heart was wild, such an angry, clamorous thing, it drove her on. Her aching, surging heart.
She wanted him... oh, how she did want him. But not this way. If he would only let her drop, if he would only take her in his arms, take her away, take her to heaven—or hell—she didn't care which any longer.
"Just a little farther," he urged, an odd shake in his voice. "Don't stop now." His breath was tremulous, but his hand grew firm against her shuddering flanks, warm as it lifted and came back down, hot as it coaxed her to go on. The heat of his fingers startled her tingling skin and brought each fiber alive, quiveringly alive. The soft crack of the next stroke, gentle as it was, made her gasp.
She could feel the pressure of four long fingers, the imprint of an open palm. God, how it startled her, what he was doing, the way he was touching her, the sharpness and sweetness of it. The wild excitement!
She braced herself for another stroke, and perhaps she even wanted it, but instead he began to caress her again, lightly caress her. The feathery touches on her vibrating skin left her dizzy with confusion and crazy with desire.
"Take me, beautiful animal..." he whispered.
Her spine jerked into a deep arch, her hips sought his, grinding out the heavy, urgent rhythms of mating. She was ready, shockingly ready for whatever he wanted. She was ready to turn to him and open her legs, ready to have him hook his arms under her knees and lift her hips in the air as he entered her, as he slowly plunged and plunged and plunged, a man lazily riding a woman...
A guilty thrill shot through Gus, piercing her languid dream state with a laser of reality. Oh, so it was going to be
that
kind of dream, she realized as she came floating back to consciousness. A lustful, lurid dream. It must have something to do with him, she thought drowsily, the subliminal effect he was having on her. Her subconscious had reached threshold and the excess was spilling over.