“That your way of saying you like it?”
She took in the large room, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Louis XVI furnishings. The bed, all satin and silk and begging to be rumpled. Or wait. Maybe that was her. “Crikey.”
He grinned, then swept off Peckinposh’s silly bowler and flung it on a blue-and-cream brocade chair. “Been anxious to rid myself of this frippery for hours.” He shrugged out of the fancy coat and unbuckled his shoulder holster, placing
his Remington Blaster on the elegant nightstand. Then he slid off several rings and the extravagant wrist cuffs.
All the while, Amelia struggled with the fastenings of her coat.
Tucker noticed her fumbling and moved in. “You okay?”
Trembling fingers, wobbly knees. Her insides clenched and fluttered, and trepidation stole down her spine. “Spectacular.” She’d been dizzy with desire all night. Now she felt skittish. Just because of that bed. That glorious, sumptuous, insanely romantic bed.
“Let me help.” He kissed her then, obliterating thought, igniting passion.
Amelia responded with fervor. His sensual charisma entranced and inflamed. One look, one touch, one kiss. Somehow she wrenched off her coat without breaking the kiss and feverishly attacked his ensemble. In the recesses of her mind it occurred to her that she should take care—no ripping of fabric, no popping of buttons—as these clothes were rented.
Restraint was ever so difficult.
“Slow down, darlin’.”
“Don’t want slow.”
Yet the blasted man softened his kisses and tempered his touch. She could feel his fingers nimbly loosening her—
Cherry’s
—corset whilst she fumbled with buttons of his—
Digger’s
—trousers. Astonishing how the kiss survived, unbroken, amidst the awkward disrobing. Not that they were completely nude, but they were indeed gloriously disheveled. She could feel the heat of his skin, the bunching of his muscles, as her hands skimmed over his rippled abdomen, across his sculpted chest. She thought about the incredible tattoo across his strong back and nearly came apart. Never would she have imagined inked art on flesh to be an aphrodisiac.
When at last they broke away, the heated passion endured, and soon after they were naked and Tucker was
carrying her toward—
blast
—that bed. Something about that bed terrified her. “Wait.”
“What?” Shifting her in his arms, he swept away the lacy bedcover and plush pillows.
She eyed a marble table, desperate for a less conventional union. More lustful than romantic. “Were you to clear that table—”
“Not now.”
He laid her gently on the massive mattress, his gaze intent. What was he thinking? Feeling? His expression, fierce yet tender, caused her chest to ache. If he couldn’t promise forever, why was he looking at her as if she were his one and only? Did he seduce all women in this manner? “I prefer the lights off.”
“I prefer them on.” He moved over her. Conventional. Romantic. Smoothing her pink curls—
pink!
—from her face, he kissed her forehead, then her cheeks, then lingered on her mouth. So sweet. So tender.
She panicked. “You promised to expose me to various sexual delights. Scandalous delights.” She thought about their morning romp in the storage room. Her cheeks burned, but she persevered. “Is there not another position—”
“Many. But I prefer this one.”
“This morning—”
“Was for you. This is for me.”
She gasped as he kissed a path down her neck, suckled her breasts, then blazed a trail over her ribs, belly, and, “Oh!”
Heaven, moon, and stars.
He was kissing her
there
. His palms urging her thighs apart. Kissing her intimate juncture in the most scandalous way. His tongue flicked.
“Ah!”
“Relax, honey.”
How absurd. One could hardly relax whilst preparing to
launch to the moon. Her muscles quivered as he continued his wicked assault.
Can’t breathe.
His finger eased inside and she imploded.
Crikey!
Before she could catch her breath, Tucker shifted and suddenly he was inside of her. Rocking gently. Slow. Deep. Her senses danced with the feel of him, the scent of him. Then, as she moaned and clutched his shoulders, begging yet again for release, he increased the rhythm, the intensity. She felt something beyond the mind-blowing physical sensations—bone-deep affection, besotted love—and she knew she would never feel this way again. There would never be any man but Tucker, her Sky Cowboy, the man she couldn’t have. The sense of loss slammed into her just as they peaked and shattered together.
She trembled in the aftermath, thoughts whirling.
Weight braced on his forearms, Tucker dropped his forehead to hers. “Amelia—”
A knock on the door stopped him short.
Conscious of their ruse and her compromising position, Amelia felt heat suffuse her face. “Who could that be?”
“Just a minute,” he called over his shoulder. He nabbed his Blaster and rolled out of bed. “Stay here,” he told Amelia.
As if she’d move. She was naked and most certainly flushed from their dalliance. Why had he taken his gun? Did he anticipate Dunkirk or ALE? Maybe Mr. O’Donnell had come to remind him she was bad luck. She could scarcely think straight, her mind and body deliciously discombobulated in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Cheeks burning, Amelia pulled the sheets over her shoulders and turned her face to the wall. She contemplated slipping over the side of the bed and crawling toward her clothes, but the room was fairly well lit. So, as Tucker suggested, she stayed as she was.
And ruminated on this most perplexing and god-awful situation.
Deep in thought, she barely registered the door snicking closed.
“Champagne for the newlyweds,” Tucker said.
Amelia looked over her shoulder and saw him, haphazardly dressed in trousers and a gaping shirt, carrying two long-stemmed glasses and a silver bucket stocked with ice and a corked bottle. He looked rumpled and to-die-for gorgeous. She cursed her smitten heart. “You ordered champagne?”
“Compliments of management.” He set the bucket on the bedside table along with the glasses. Then he eased his Blaster from the back of his waistband and returned the gun to his holster.
She supposed that, given his profession—past and present—he always kept a weapon at the ready. She flashed on the penny dreadfuls she’d read over the years, compelling tales about Tucker’s adventures as an air marshal. Her pulse skipped with a moment of hero worship. A courageous, industrious law official who’d wrangled the most dangerous of criminals. A superior aviator who’d stunned the masses with his death-defying abductions. Never in a million years would she have imagined herself in bed with Tucker Gentry,
in love
with Tucker Gentry.
Too good to be true
, her mind whispered. Impossible. Unattainable. Like so many of her papa’s inventions, she saw this fantastic venture blowing up in her face.
The man of her wildest and improbable dreams peeled off his shirt whilst gesturing to the champagne. “Should we indulge now?” His tender gaze slid to her mouth. “Or later?”
“Now,” she croaked. Instead of delighting at the hint of more magical kisses, she vibrated with an urgent need to vanquish her romantic delusions. Whilst Tucker uncorked the bottle, Amelia scrambled from beneath the sheets and nabbed her discarded pink blouse.
“What are you doing?”
“You didn’t intend to drink in bed, did you?”
He quirked a gentle smile, shucking his trousers whilst she pulled on her blouse. “Come here, Amelia.”
Sighing, she crawled back into that blasted bed. At least she was no longer naked. Tucker, on the other hand…Though his legs and man parts were hidden beneath the sheets, she had a full and splendid view of his muscled torso, his gorgeous face, his rumpled hair. She swallowed another sigh as he passed her a glass of bubbling champagne. Another first, although she’d sampled wine. Were they not the same?
He clinked his glass to hers. “Here’s to locating the ornithopter.”
The fact that he hadn’t said something more intimate, like, “Here’s to us,” only intensified her desperation to quell her new and idiotic romantic illusions. There was no “us” beyond finding da Vinci’s ornithopter and delivering it to the jubilee committee. After that she would be on her own, and he would be—
“Let’s talk about what just happened.”
Amelia blinked. Was he privy to her heart? Had he felt her falling in love? Had he read it in her eyes? Or was he referring to his own amorous display? Was this where he confessed that he looked at every woman he wanted to seduce into a stupor with that “you’re my one-and-only” intensity? Was this where he reminded her that he couldn’t promise forever? That their relationship was temporary? Her heart ached and her temper flared. Did he think her unworldly? Gullible? She gulped champagne, which tasted nothing like wine, scrambling for reasons—any reason—to dislike this man.
“Are you a New Worlder?” she blurted.
“Excuse me?”
“You cautioned me about bringing up political and religious views whilst in a skytown, but now we’re alone and I’m desperate to know.”
He sipped champagne, then regarded her with a raised brow. “Why?”
“Humor me,” she said by way of a straight answer.
“I am not a New Worlder.”
That should have snuffed her attraction. It didn’t. She drank more champagne. “Old Worlder, then. I confess, given your aggressive and open views on advanced technology, I’m surprised.”
“Not an Old Worlder.”
She gaped. “Flatliner?” Even though she was disgusted, her inner self whooped with relief. An opportunist. Someone who cared only for himself with no thought for the future of mankind. She would never consider marrying a Flatliner. Her liberal and utopian views wouldn’t stand for it. She finished off her champagne, waiting for her affections to die a swift death. Why did they linger? Stupefied, she held out her glass for a refill.
Tucker complied, though his expression clearly advised that she take this one slowly.
She downed the first quarter, hiccuped. “Excuse me.” Mind whirling, she shook her head. “This makes no sense. You risked your life making America a safer place. Clearly you care or did care about humanity. Or did you merely combat injustice to make a name for yourself? Indeed, you have achieved great fame, first as an air marshal, then as an outlaw. Mr. O’Donnell mentioned that you’re a hardheaded bastard when it comes to money.”
“Axel talks too much.”
“Are you truly motivated by money? If so…” She flashed on the newspaper articles from more than a year back. The scandal that had spurred Tucker to flee his own country. She hadn’t believed him guilty, but
what if
? Were she looking to quash her tender feelings, believing the worst would do it.
“If so, then maybe I am guilty as accused of theft and murder.” He drained his glass, then set it aside. “A couple of
days ago you thought me incapable of, as you put it, such an atrocity.”
She still did. Even though her head spun, her gut stood strong. Tucker Gentry wouldn’t seduce a woman for nefarious reasons. He certainly wouldn’t resort to murder when things turned bad. Regardless of the evidence, Amelia believed him innocent. Learning he was a Flatliner had knocked her off balance. Knowing his abominable political stance, however, had not shaken her infatuation. She still craved his company and affection. Still fantasized about being his one and only. Of all the rotten luck. She swigged deeply, hoping to numb her addled thoughts. Instead her mind spun with scenarios, mostly bad. “Blast.” She palmed her forehead, fighting a dizzy spell.
Tucker relieved her of the glass, then rolled in and pulled her down into a spooning position.
She would’ve protested, except the room was spinning and his arms stabilized her somewhat. “I feel strange.”
“You’re not much of a drinker, honey.”
“I drank plenty.”
“That’s what I mean.”
She could feel herself drifting, a surreal tingly sensation that caused her to smile into the pillow in spite of her troubled mood. In the next breath, she tried to remember what had vexed her so.
Tucker tightened his hold, spoke close to her ear. “Amelia.”
“Mmm?”
“Why so desperate to know my political stance?”
She snuggled deeper into his embrace, giving over to a soft, sweet haze. “Because I don’t want to love you.”
Tuck didn’t sleep a damned wink. He tossed and turned all night, Amelia’s words ringing in his ears.
I don’t want to love you
. Hell, it was the last thing he wanted, too. Bad enough that he loved her. He’d recognized the fact earlier in the evening, but then when he’d made love to her in the honeymoon suite, in a bed intended for man and wife, his heart nearly burst with marrow-deep, long-lasting affection.
Having her snuggled in his arms had intensified the need to wake with her every morning. When she’d roused, grumpy and distant, all he could think about was how vexing and cute she was. All he wanted was to toss her on the bed and kiss the holy discontent out of her. All he craved was a lifetime of sass.
Of all the impossible situations. Of all the women he’d encountered in his life…why Amelia? Why now?
Tuck had spent the short return flight from Paris to the skytown contemplating the reality of his circumstance. He needed that ornithopter, if it did indeed exist, or a mighty hefty fortune in order to bargain for a life that included his sister and cleared his men. Even without the artifact or jubilee prize, he was well on his way. Working for another year or so as an international air courier should do it. The riskier the cargo, the higher the payday, the sooner he’d reach his goal. That entailed circumventing ALE and sky pirates. He couldn’t keep Amelia on the
Maverick
day to day and submit her to that sort of danger. He couldn’t offer her a stable, respectable life on the ground either. So, what?
Ask her to wait for him until…when? What if it took longer than a year? What if there were complications? What if he got himself killed?
Banking on his accuser’s obsession with antiquities, Tuck could revise his situation lickety-split with that priceless ornithopter, but that meant convincing Amelia to give it over. He’d been stewing on a solution that would benefit them both. He could afford to pay her a pretty pound up front and would continue to feed her bank account in order to provide for her family, but he worried that she cared more about aggrandizing her father’s reputation and the family’s tattered name than affording them a comfortable future. Money he could offer. Glory? Short of helping her deliver da Vinci’s invention to the British Science Museum and somehow ensuring that she won the jubilee prize, how the hell could he bring glory and respectability to the eccentric and infamous Darcys? One thing was for sure and certain: He did
not
want to hurt Amelia.