She should pull back, escape while she could.
Crazy. You're crazy. He's only a man like every other man you've ever known.
In the hushed suite, he moved faster than expected. Once he set down the bottle and glasses, he pulled her to him and found her mouth. Before she could pull away, his tongue slid over her lips, opened them, delved inside.
No time to think. She had to get control.
Relax, relax. Keep him at arm’s length
.
His tongue lingered over each tooth before he came up for air. “God, I've wanted to do that all night. You have no idea how much I've wanted to do that, sweet Scarlet.”
“I’d never have guessed.” She dropped her cloak and evening purse, and then wrapped her arms around his neck and a leg around his thigh, molding herself to him, feeling his muscles shift. His fingers touched her cheek, trailed lower till they skimmed the line of her neck to her breast. His lips followed, a beginning beard rough against her throat.
A familiar twinge tightened her most private place.
Time to retreat. Breathless, she used the flat of one hand to fend him off.
He wavered between irritation, doubt, wistfulness, and lust.
There was also anxiety, but since she was the manipulator, she understood. He'd taken her retreat as rejection. Time to use the secret face she'd put away years ago. An inviting smile, lips caressed by the tip of an unhurried tongue.
As a teenager, she had spent hours practicing the look that promised so much and guaranteed so little.
Because he didn't know the promises were empty, his taut body relaxed. “Would you care to see the bedroom?”
“Yes.” Recovering from her misstep, she donned the dewy-eyed mask of passion. “I would love to see your bedroom.”
Her agreement brought back his confidence.
Poor little gullible boy. I can handle him
.
They walked together, arms around each other's waist.
The sitting room with its opulent Victorian furnishings and quantities of plush carpet made the barest impression on her. In the bedroom, all she saw was the large bed, its plum-colored comforter overcast by a dim lamp dangling crystals and fringe. The wall behind it, covered with floor to ceiling mirror tiles, reflected the two of them as shadowy, dreamlike apparitions.
One of his hands steered her toward the bed, the other unbuttoned his coat.
Her stopping short brought out a frown. “I know you want me.”
Make it plain now, while he’s just exasperated, before he gets angry.
“But you have to do it my way, Callaway. Slow. I won't be rushed. We have all night, don't we?”
Her frankness dispelled the crease in the broad forehead.
“Sure, sweet Scarlet. I have as long as you want. All night, all week.” His fingers caught her hair, sifted through it before he cupped the back of her neck. “We have all the time in the world to discover what turns you on, what turns me on.”
The hazy light softened his features so he looked young and trusting. Even his mouth looked innocent.
She wanted to touch it with her fingers, taste it with her tongue.
He's a man. Like any other man. You’re off men, remember?
“Good. So we’ll go slow.”
“We’ll go slow.” He pulled her to him again. His hands clasped her hips and pressed her against his sex, kneading her as if he would pierce through clothing and take her right there. When his fingers worked their way up, sliding into the top of her dress to search for a breast, she moved away.
“Don't rush me.” There was no need to pretend breathlessness. “You agreed.”
He took off his coat, laughing, sure of himself and her, but pleasant, always pleasant. “All right, pretty lady. Do you want a cigarette to slow things down? Do you smoke?”
“Yeah, let's have a cigarette. And where's the champagne? I thought you were going to toast me in champagne.” Knowing full well he’d left the bottle in the other room, she pretended to look around.
When he started toward the door, her hand caught his cummerbund and tugged suggestively. “Stay here. I'll get it.” Along with something that would put an end to his casual devastation of her body. “Take off your clothes, turn down the bed, and light me that cigarette.”
“Yes'm, Miss Scahlet!” he said with an exaggerated drawl and unexaggerated alacrity. “Ah'm yo-ahs to command.”
She felt his eyes on her as she went into the sitting room.
* * * *
He could tell she knew he was watching her. The sassy swing of her butt gave her away.
Damn, she was something. Clever, too, at least about man-woman things. She had understood his unspoken meanings, voiced her approval. Maybe there was more to her than he suspected.
Nope, he was wishing again.
Undoing his tie, he went into the dressing area where he took out both cuff diamonds and the four smaller shirt studs, all made from a necklace Marie Antoinette never purchased.
His Antoinette diamonds. Priceless.
In London, an impoverished peer who knew he collected antique jewelry had approached him. The man was dying and wanted to give them to someone who would care for their history; someone who could pay. A ledger over two centuries old supposedly proved the studs came from the infamous necklace that some historians claimed led to the unfortunate queen’s beheading.
True or not, the peer had spun a fascinating tale, and the studs, once acquired, had brought Cal good luck. After winning at roulette and blackjack more often than not while wearing them, he used them for a talisman.
Tonight all six studs went into their leather case before he opened the electronic safe in the wall. It contained only two other items, one a book and the other a ring purchased that afternoon from a frantic woman sent by Miles de Graffen.
“I know you don't share my prejudice against emeralds,” Miles had said in his aristocratic way, “and this would make a nice addition to your collection. The ring's late Victorian, with a rather unusual cut and setting. Pretty little bauble. She's desperate to sell. You can get it for a song.”
Cal had never been as serious a collector as his mentor, and the ring wasn’t particularly attractive.
But he, softhearted chump, could never withstand a tearful woman. Not only did he buy the ring, he'd overpaid.
No matter. His father had left him plenty of money, and the weeping blonde had needed some for her sick child. Content with his good deed, he pushed the emerald aside before placing the leather stud case on top of the book.
His mother's journal.
When they’d found out it existed, Claire had already begged off the Houston opening. A change in her plans would have made Robert suspicious.
So Cal had volunteered to retrieve the journal. He adored his sister, and there was little enough he did for her.
Usually it was the other way around.
His fingertip slid down the spine of the journal and its betraying pages.
They'd destroy it, but first Claire wanted to read Lila’s innermost thoughts about that crazy year in Italy herself. He’d been surprised that his mother would admit herself so vulnerable.
Claire would be, too. Lila had always been in control. Of herself, of her family, and of the business once she took the reins.
While his sister didn't often ask for his help, occasionally he could be of use.
Humming, he patted the book, closed the safe and locked it up. Then he emptied his pockets, turned off his cell, and stripped to his boxers. Full frontal probably wouldn't scare Scarlet but...
Condoms. He rummaged in his shaving kit.
In the bedroom, he folded back the bedcovers. No sound from the next room.
The redhead was taking her time. A little late to pretend modesty, wasn't it?
Perhaps her game called for force. Some women went for the rape scenario. Rough sex wasn't much to his taste, but he’d give Scarlet whatever she asked for. Obliging women was one of his other few talents.
Twelve-thirty. He’d forgotten to remove his watch but no matter. He would light cigarettes to give her another minute before enticing her to bed.
* * * *
Amanda fumbled as she pressed the lid on the small ibuprofen bottle and replaced it inside her beaded evening bag. A pill that was not a pain reliever had already disappeared into one of the filled flutes.
Better hurry. He would wonder what was taking so long.
According to her research, a couple of glasses of champagne before taking the drug shouldn't be life-threatening. It might even hasten the effects.
I hope Noelle got me the right stuff. She must have. Edward's a pharmacist. She couldn’t help but soak up something from him in three years of marriage. Besides, the pill looks like the one on the Internet.
As she picked up the flutes, her hands shook, but by the time she reached the bedroom, they were steady.
The lamp revealed him waiting, stripped down to boxers and lounging against a stack of pillows. A few dark hairs littered the tanned chest and muscular legs. His eyes gleamed through slitted eyelids.
Her stomach lurched. Her mouth dried out.
He patted the sheet beside him. “Do you intend to join the party in all your clothes? You're a trifle overdressed.”
“I like this dress.” She walked toward him, swaying her hips, activating the sultry smile. “Don't you?”
“Take it off and I'll tell you.”
Two cigarettes glowed red. She noted them with the same detachment as she noted the bulge in his boxers.
He didn't miss her glance. “Yes, he's excited. But I think I can control him long enough so he can do his job.”
He drew on one of the cigarettes before laying both in the ashtray. Then, while smoke escaped from his mouth and nostrils in a sinister manner at odds with his engaging frankness and mischievous smile, he put out his hand for a champagne flute. “If not, I promise I'll make him keep trying.”
For a split second, her mind left her.
Which glass has the pill? The one on the right. Yes, this one.
She gave it to him. “I think we should drink to us first.”
With one hand he took the flute and pulled her down beside him with his other. “Miss Scarlet,” he drawled, “Ah'd purely love to drink to us.”
Her hip nestled against his waist. She held her champagne in one hand and put the other on his chest for balance.
Heat shot through her fingertips. All the secret places burst to life.
Glasses touched, tinkled. When he caressed her shoulder, so near his breath warmed her arm, her chest constricted. “To us.”
“To us.” As in the ballroom earlier, he drained his glass.
Noelle had told her about the way he tossed back alcohol, persuaded her the disconcerting habit would make things easier.
Amanda’s sister might be handicapped in understanding the big picture, but she had an uncanny ability to pick up on details that normally didn’t matter.
This one did.
Bent on seduction, Callaway noticed nothing.
Amanda drained her champagne, too. She needed it.
When he reached across to set his empty flute on the nightstand, his arm brushed her silk-covered breasts. “I lit you a cigarette. Want it?”
“Sure. Give me a minute.” Setting her glass down beside his, she took two small packets from her evening bag and tossed them onto the sheet.
His hand with a cigarette paused. “A modern female.”
“I like to be prepared.”
“Ummmm,” he purred. “I like a woman who's prepared. A woman who's prepared is a wise woman.”
“Most people would call her something, but I doubt it would be wise.”
After the first moment of surprise, he laughed, really laughed. He threw back his head and roared.
She waited for him to sober. “It wasn't that funny”
“No?” He put the cigarette in his mouth and leaned over. Again his arm nudged her breasts while he opened a drawer of the nightstand. “I have my own, you see.” He dropped several packets beside her two. “I also believe in being prepared. Whose shall we use?”
“Neither right now. Is this my cigarette?” Inhaling didn’t make her dizzy, but his hip pushing at hers did.
She shouldn't be here, taking part in this farce. Why hadn’t she told Noelle no? Right, and let Noelle's marriage and little Teddy's family disintegrate. Besides, nothing was going to happen with Callaway McIntyre. In a few minutes, he’d be asleep and she could get Noelle’s ring and never see him again.
Maybe he’d think the flush in her face was from sexual tumult.
Partly true.
But he wasn't looking at her face. Settled back against the stacked pillows, he studied her bare shoulder. The cigarette dangled from his mouth as his hand stroked her skin. “This will be an evening we'll never forget.”
Her smoke rings rose, perfect circles reminding her of college, when she’d been young and frivolous before... “Not for a long, long time.”
“Never.” He shifted his attention to her mouth. “Have we talked enough? Or are you one of those tedious women who want to dredge up every childhood memory before doing it?”