The Art of Seduction (5 page)

She felt herself redden and turned away. His effect on her was irresistible, this shamelessly handsome man, erudite, witty, with a voice that could melt chocolate and an animal magnetism that oozed from his pores despite the veneer of cultured sophistication. Her desire for him was so intense that she was having trouble catching her breath.

“But tell me,” he said. “What are your plans?”

“Plans?” She couldn't seem to figure out what he was asking.

“For the future,” he elaborated. “Falconier will pull back the paintings for a bit, quadruple the prices, and no doubt sell them in a matter of minutes. Which will leave you with a valise full of francs. What then?”

“I don't know. I suppose I'll go back to America.”

And Mason will miraculously reappear.

“A pity, that. I was hoping you'd stay for a while.”

His voice had taken on a husky timbre, hushed, intimate. Was she imagining it, or was he looking at her the way a hunter looked at his prey?

“Why would I want to do that?” She hadn't intended it to be a tease, but the breathiness with which she'd uttered it gave it a sassy quality.

“It occurs to me that we have a great deal in common. I should like to…deepen our acquaintance.”

His tone was deceptively casual yet edged with determination—the polite vanguard of a will not to be denied.

“Deepen?”

Oh, God, did I really say that? It sounded like the invitation of some Pigalle tart.

“You don't object, I hope? Because the truth is, I find myself in the throes of a most peculiar urge.”

“What sort of urge?” she gulped.

The dark eyes, hooded and penetrating, seemed to bore a hole in her. “The urge to do whatever it takes to keep you in Paris.”

“Whatever…it takes?”

What am I doing?

She knew where this was leading, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.

He leaned toward her, close enough that she could almost feel his lips with hers, and repeated firmly, “
Whatever
it takes.”

G
arrett raised his hand and momentarily a large gilded coach drawn by four white horses pulled up before them. The words
LE GRAND-HÔTEL
were lettered on the side. It had apparently been waiting for him outside the gallery and the driver was monitoring the progress of his and Mason's stroll.

Garrett took out his billfold, withdrew a hundred-franc note, and handed it to the crisply uniformed man who sat out front in the driver's box, the reins taut in his white gloved hands. “Drive,” he commanded. “Don't stop till I tell you on pain of death. Understand?”

“
Certainment, Monsieur
.”

Garrett opened the door and held his hand out to Mason. She hesitated for the briefest of moments. If ever she was going to turn the tide, it would have to be now. She looked up into his eyes and saw there a kind of fierce glare. It wasn't so much that he was inviting her inside as commanding her to enter his domain. All the while his eyes bore into her; his mouth, with the full lips, looked pagan and wicked, and almost predatory. She could feel his energy engulf her, wholly masculine, unconscionably rife with a sexuality that made no apology and asked no quarter. There was something about his unflinching concentration that mesmerized her. It was almost as if she were in the throes of some uncontrollable power. But the truth was, if he was some kind of sorcerer who rendered women to putty in his hands, she didn't care. Because she wanted to step inside, to taste of the forbidden fruit he dangled before her.

Mason took the hand he offered. His touch melted her in a pool of yearning. He handed her up into the coach, a grandiose affair plush with emerald velvet–lined walls and thickly padded matching seats. The woodwork was painted white and gilded in the style of Louis Quinze, and the door handles appeared to be made of gold. He lowered the shades on all sides so they were sheltered from prying eyes.

The coach was luxurious and could easily hold a family of eight. But Mason wasn't thinking of her opulent surroundings. She was watching the way Garrett moved, as sleek as a panther, as self-assured as a battle-seasoned gladiator. He turned to her as the vehicle rattled off, swaying on his feet.

As he saw her lounging back in the cushions, he halted abruptly, his eyes roaming the length of her as if envisioning every line of her femininely concealed curves. The hard-edged gleam almost made her swoon.

If he didn't touch her soon, she'd burst into flames.

He crossed the length of the coach in two strides, took her shoulders in his hands, and hauled her to her feet. Her breath left her as she collided against the massive weight of him. And then his arms were around her, pinioning her to him, holding her tight as he dipped his head and took possession of her mouth. She swayed beneath the ambush of his kiss, no nonsense now, zeroing in on her with blistering passion. She was wedged so closely against him that she felt every sexhardened ridge of him pressing into the excruciating throbbing between her thighs. She tilted into him as the carriage picked up speed and felt her head reel. His hands began to move on her, touching all the sensitive hollows and swells, scorching her breasts, moving down the length of her back to come up behind and press her buttocks in his palms. Desire flared hot and luscious, piercing her, igniting responses that left her feeling flushed and defenseless as his tongue sweetly ransacked her mouth.

Oh yes,
the whole of her body seemed to sigh.
This is just what I need.

Without warning, he dropped back onto the seat and took her with him with a possessive tug so that she fell into him, straddled on his knees, her own knees on either side. His mouth still searching hers, he slid her closer until she could feel the immense stiffness of him against the spread softness of her female core. Already combustible, her loins ignited and she whimpered into the prison of his mouth.

Too soon he took his lips away. He kept her pinned to him with one hand, and with the other unbuttoned her bodice with the sure hand of a man accustomed to breaching such obstacles. He jerked the fabric aside, baring her breast. Then he grabbed a handful of her hair in his massive fist, pulled her head back, and bent to capture her nipple with his mouth.

Awash in pleasure so intense it was almost painful, Mason threw her head back against the crush of his clenched hand and moaned, abandoning herself, feeling him rock her against him harder, faster, the friction building in succulent spirals, her breast pulsing in the moist ardor of his mouth. There was something forceful, demanding, thrilling in the way he held her trapped where he wanted her, moving her at his own will. The deep, coiling hunger welled inside, leaving her feeling famished, incinerating all conscious thought like the blast of a furnace running at full heat. This was ecstasy she hadn't counted on. She'd decided she'd wanted him, whatever the cost. But there was no question that he was the one in control. She'd become a feather in the force of his domination.

It was sweet agony. She couldn't take the torture of having him, sheathed and flint hard, teasing her so unremittingly as he spread his knees to open her to him wider still. Her breath was like a blowtorch in her lungs, her body bursting to life under his puppeteer's hands. She wanted to feel him inside her, surrounded by her. She'd never felt so explosive in all her life, a hair trigger perilously close to discharging with the slightest touch.

She reached up and clutched his head in her hands. “Don't make me wait. I can't.”

His mouth twisted in what seemed a knowing smile, but it only served to accentuate its seductive cruelty. He knew the effect he was having on her. And he was enjoying it. He was relishing the sight of her, rumpled now as her hair, tangled in his fingers, spilled free of its pins beneath the perky bonnet; her eyes glazed with desperate passion; her breasts, damp and swollen now, bared to his unsparing gaze.

His eyes narrowing, he took the bonnet in hand and snatched it off, tossing it aside. Then he cupped his hands beneath her armpits, grazing her breasts as he did and sending shivers up her spine. Lifting her off him, he gave a mighty heave so she went sprawling across the coach to the opposite seat. She gasped, surprised, sinking into the cushions like a discarded rag doll.

He stood, filling the enclosed space, having to stoop to keep from banging his head. He came toward her slowly with a rapacious tread. Bending, he put his hands up under her skirt, finding her legs and grazing them upward, upward, so the cascading pink skirt rose in his track. She felt the power of his touch everywhere, on her calves, her knees, along her tingling inner thighs. Then he took hold of the waistband of her undergarments and, with one savage jerk, yanked them down. The air was cool on her exposed sex as he swiftly removed her undergarments and sent them flying to land on her forgotten hat.

Her legs moved to close automatically, but he shot up and stepped between them, arresting her progress. He stood over her and began with calculated motions to undo his trousers.

She watched, transfixed. He pushed aside the expensive material and took himself in hand. Her breath stopped completely. He was magnificent. Revealed this way from the confines of refined clothing and sophisticated bearing, he stood like some primitive beast of pleasure, hard, colossal, divinely shaped. It wasn't the cock of a gentleman. He looked rugged and all man.

“Spread your legs for me,” he instructed, the words sounding exquisite in the richly rolling vowels that seemed to taste every syllable.

She did so unhurriedly, making him wait, feeling utterly exposed as his eyes took in every detail of her, sprawled before him like a Palais Royal whore. She caught the light of appreciation and wanted more. So she drew her legs up so the heels of her boots were on the seat at either side of her, and put her hand where his eyes were avidly feasting.

She was so wet that it startled her. Her fingers grew slippery as she played with the folds, opening them to his view. And now it was his eyes that grew glazed, making her feel depraved and beautiful all at the same time.

He was on her in a single pounce, thrusting her legs back so she was propelled wide open. He lowered himself to her, rubbing the bare clit with the velvety head of his erection, replacing her hands. She cried out in an agony of urgency, ready to explode, curling into him, coaxing him to come inside.

It's been so long. Too long.

But, no. It was never like this!

He kept his hands on her legs, holding them widespread. But he eased himself into her slowly, so slowly, one excruciating inch at a time, so she could feel each successive motion, the deliberate easing of himself into her snug warmth, tantalizing, teasing, and yet driving himself in with a resoluteness that said,
This is where I belong.
As if he wanted her to
know,
with his measured invasion of her, that this was where he was meant to be.

She'd never felt so possessed, so taken, so claimed in all her life. It seemed to her that all the world was suspended in ravishing anticipation.

Needing to hold on to something, she reached her arms back and grabbed on to the top of the seat cushion behind her with both hands, stretching herself before him, shifting her hips up to meet him, to try and take control. To hurry his penetration.

But he felt her designs. As if to show her who was really in command, he drew out until the supple head was teasing her slick opening. Then, with one single ram, he plunged inside.

She cried out and felt his hand clamp itself over her mouth. And then he was plundering her with vigorous thrusts, again and again and again, filling her so completely, so sublimely, that she felt she'd go insane. He leaned into her, his mouth at her ear, his breath hot and luscious, and said, “Go ahead and scream. You need to scream, don't you? When was the last time a man made you scream?”

She surrendered unequivocally and screamed into his hand. Outside the rumbling coach, Paris passed by. Ladies strolled the streets with parasols perched, and children frolicked with puppies in the parks. But in here, in this lavish, sheltered haven, she was screaming out loud because this man—this
unbelievable
man—was slamming into her like a battering ram and driving her wild.

She came on his cock, spasming on him, around him, consumed by him, engulfing him deeper and deeper, as deeply as it was possible to take him, feeling shivery and glorious, swimming with pleasure, with joy, with life-affirming bliss.

Then she was being moved. Her head was spinning so that she didn't know where he was taking her, and didn't care. Mason found herself lying back along the length of the seat, Richard's raging erection still inside. He moved like a shot and he was on her, never ceasing his delivery of each delicious thrust.

She clung to him now, sinking into a whirlpool that sucked her down, down, until he sent her spiraling once more. He caught her cries in his mouth this time, tasting them, the proof of her elation at his hands.

“What are you doing to me?” he rasped in her ear.

And she answered, like a woman possessed, “What are you doing to
me
?”

Some remnant of cognizance swam to the surface of her mind.
I'd like to paint him. I'd like to put on canvas the way he makes me feel.

As if he'd divined her wish and understood, he took her face in his two large hands and gave her a deep, poignant kiss.

They spoke no more, except with moans and groans and sighs. But she opened her eyes and found him watching her wondrously as if he, too, were rocked to the foundation of his being. Their eyes met and a spark of something raw and real passed between them. She felt her spirit soar staring into the mystery and mastery of his eyes.

In that instant, all pretense vanished. She lay beneath him as her true self, feeling that they looked, not into each other's eyes, but into their very souls as they came together now, unflinchingly naked and revealed.

In the hushed and intimate aftermath as their breathing slowed, they held one another close, neither wanting to let the magic end. Mason's heart was beating as it never had before. She felt riveted by an emotion she couldn't comprehend.

But it had to end. It was inevitable that they'd slowly, painfully, become aware of their surroundings, of the swaying of the coach, of the heated sheen of their skin. Of the silence that was so dense that it seemed a new and previously unheard sound.

Richard moved away too soon, standing stiffly, assembling his clothing as he looked down at her with a stirring affection in his eyes. “Where are you stopping?”

He asked the question as if he could think of nothing profound enough to say. She had to think what he meant. She had to pull herself together, to recall the outside world. Once again, she had to remember the role she was playing.

“The Jockey Club, on Rue Scribe,” she croaked, as if she hadn't spoken for a year.

He arched a brow. “The Jockey Club? Isn't that a private hotel?”

She eased up into a sitting position, righting her now badly wrinkled skirt. “Falconier keeps a suite there. He offered it to me while I'm in Paris.”

“Then we're neighbors. My hotel is directly across the street.”