The Setup (11 page)

There was a bonfire going on within her now, the flames rising higher and higher. For a man of substance, he could certainly kiss. Contact had instantly aroused all the appetites dormant within her. All the hungers, the desires, the passions that had been safely tucked away ever since she’d become a mother suddenly surged to the surface.

She hung on for dear life. Exhilarated. And more than a little scared.

The deep kiss gave way to more frantic ones. Quick, fleeting kisses that aroused, teased, promised. As his mouth roamed her eyes, her cheeks, the hollow of her throat, Sylvie felt as if someone had lit a Roman candle inside of her. It threatened to go off.

And then she felt his fingers gently coaxing her dress from her shoulders. She had to steel herself to keep the shiver of anticipation banked down. For reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, it almost felt
as if this was the first time for her. The first time she’d ever made love.

Eagerly, she began to tug at Jefferson’s clothing. She fought the urge to rip it off his body with her teeth. As it was, she was shaking inside as she undid buttons, pulled his shirt out of his pants and made short work of the latter. She had been right. The clothing he wore in no way hinted at the muscular body beneath. He was sculpted.

Her heart hammered. She could almost feel it vibrating in her body as desperation to touch him flowed through her. She wanted to touch him and be touched by him. To have his hands claim what she had already given to him.

Her breathing had grown audible. Funny how such a simple sound like that could set him off, Jefferson thought. He felt as if his knees were buckling even as strength surged through him and he slipped off her bra and panties.

There was no way, when the evening began, that he had thought it would end like this. Here with Sylvie. Bedding the woman wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

Now it was the
only
thing he had in mind.

That, and making certain that he pleasured her. Because that was all tied up with his own sense of satisfaction. Making it enjoyable for her would make it enjoyable for him. He’d spent his adult life making certain that whenever he and Donna made love, her pleasure came before his own. It was just the way he was wired.

But things had changed since he was married. And he had a feeling that the woman he was with was far more experienced in the ways of pleasure, both receiving and giving, than he was.

Was he going to disappoint her?

He didn’t know, but he did know that this was no time for self-doubt.

He went with his instincts, exploring her body as if he’d just entered a sacred place.

Slowly he caressed her, moving his hands gently along her curves as if one wrong move would cause her to break. With each pass of his hands, the heat between them soared to sizzling, and as his mouth explored her soft skin, Jefferson felt desire threatening his control. Carefully, slowly, he eased her over to the sofa and lay down beside her.

A small sound escaped her lips. He stopped, looking at her, afraid he might have hurt her.

“It’s cold,” she explained breathlessly. “The leather. Against my back.”

He grinned. “I’ll see what I can do to fix that.” He slid his hands beneath her and drew her closer.

Sylvie twisted beneath him, stealing his breath away. All the systems that he’d thought had been cut off were up and running and about to fire on all cylinders.

Linking his hands with hers, Jefferson nudged her thighs apart with his and then slipped into her. Her legs locked themselves around his torso, and he felt oddly at peace even as a frantic energy seized him.
He was completely filled with the sight, the taste, the feel of her. Filled with wanting.

He wasn’t thinking anymore, wasn’t asking himself if he’d lost his mind. He might have, but in losing it, he’d found something else.

As the urgency continued to build, he struggled to keep up with it, so that it wouldn’t overwhelm him.

Sylvie’s breathing was coming in snatches, telling him she was right there with him. She dug her nails into his back as she arched, desperate to achieve that final, fantastic surge.

With one last powerful thrust, Jefferson brought them both to a cresting release. He felt her cry out his name against his mouth and savored the taste of her breath.

And then he held her close to him, because he needed to revel in this moment—when he’d rediscovered himself as a man.

Even as their bodies cooled and their breathing slowed, Jefferson held Sylvie close to him. Feeling her heart beat beside his was somehow comforting.

He’d missed this.

Missed the intimacy, the upward surge, the final, breathtaking moment of mindlessness when the two of them existed as one.

He tried to hang on to that feeling for as long as he possibly could.

S
YLVIE RAISED HER HEAD
, her soft, flame-colored hair lightly sweeping across his chest, causing ripples along his skin and widening whirlpools deep inside his belly. Jefferson could feel his gut reflexively tighten against the onslaught, but it was too late. He’d already been captured.

Wow.

That was the only word that Jefferson, eloquent to a fault, could think of to encompass what had just happened here between them. To him.

Wow.

A smile played along his lips as he threaded his fingers through her hair. The sensuous, silky feel of it wove its way through him. Making him want. Again.

He was far from a novice when it came to lovemaking, but everything about this felt brand new.

Unaware of the effect she was having on him, Sylvie cocked her head, straining to listen. Was that her imagination, or had she just heard a noise coming from the first floor of the gallery?

“What is it?” Jefferson asked, lightly skimming his thumb along her bottom lip.

Sylvie struggled to focus. “Do you hear something?”

Taking her seriously, Jefferson paused for a second, listening. All he heard was her…breathing. He smiled, shaking his head.

Other than the distant murmur of voices from the street, it was as dead as a tomb inside the gallery. Except, Jefferson thought, amending the analogy slightly, he’d never felt so alive. Thanks to her.

“Just the pounding of my heart,” he told her.

His answer made her laugh and feel warm inside. It had been a long time since she’d felt that way. A long time. The noise she thought she’d heard was gone, if it had ever existed.

Probably just her imagination, she decided. The same imagination that had felt the earth move a few minutes ago.

“That must be it,” she told him as she spread her hand over his chest. She could feel his heart beating beneath her palm. It was a soothing sensation. Sylvie leaned her head on top of her hand, her eyes on his. “They’re right,” she declared softly, without preamble.

Things were going on inside of him. Things he was trying to recognize, to assess, even as he just wanted to lie there and steep himself in these delicious sensations.

“About?”

“Still waters running deep.”
I owe you, Charlotte, Melanie and Renee.
“I would have never thought, looking at you, that…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. She could tell that he understood
her meaning. Smiling, she repeated the sentiment she had uttered earlier this evening. “You are a man of many, many talents, Jefferson Lambert.”

And no one was more surprised about some of them than he was, Jefferson thought. He was quite sure tonight had been much more of a revelation to him than it had to her.

Very gently, he brought his hands to Sylvie’s sides and moved her so that her body was once more against his, this time fitting neatly on top.

Jefferson saw the spark of pleasure entering her eyes. Less than a second later, he could feel excitement surging through his loins once again. Gathering her even closer, he splayed his hands across her buttocks as he felt himself hardening. She made him feel tireless, young. Eternal.

“Many talents,” Sylvie murmured, bringing her mouth down to his.

Within moments, she’d lost herself again in the powerful, vibrant, heretofore undiscovered country that he brought her to. Any thoughts of things that went bump in the night were all forgotten.

A
T THE OTHER END
of the hotel and two flights up, Luc’s heart was pounding wildly in his chest, feeling as if it were going to burst right out at any moment. For a completely different reason.

Leaning against the door, he stared unseeing into the darkness. He didn’t bother turning on the small flashlight he’d brought with him earlier. His gloved fingers were locked in a death grip around the small
rectangular object he held close. At this moment, he wasn’t sure he could release it even if his life depended on it. It was as if his hands had become sealed to the painting, as much a part of it as the frame that surrounded it.

For a moment, all he could hear was the sound of his rapid breathing. It agitated rather than soothed him, but he couldn’t seem to slow it down.

Damn, he had no idea how he had managed to get away with this. The odds were astronomically against him, he’d been a fool to chance it. Yet, he’d succeeded. Somehow, he had managed to get into the art gallery—the only easy part of his plan—remove the painting and bring it all the way back up to this room without a single person crossing his path.

Luck, that capricious femme fatale that had eluded his father in his later years, had seen fit to turn her beatific smile on him. She’d been at his side tonight, his only companion on the way from the gallery to this room.

Turning the painting around, Luc stared down at it, trying to adjust his eyes to the faint light coming through the window. But for a moment he couldn’t see anything. Lights seemed to be flashing as frantic thoughts assailed him from all directions.

Get a grip, damn it,
he ordered himself.

He glanced around the room. A broken pipe had stained the carpet, so the room would be empty until Monday, when the new carpet was installed. But where could he put the painting?

This wasn’t right.

Luc felt torn. He wasn’t some masked avenger, trying to right a wrong that had been done to his father by some faceless corporation. The Marchands were a family—his father’s family. Taking this painting was going to have repercussions. He was hurting people he had come to care about in a short time. People who were his blood. And making them lose the hotel wouldn’t bring his father back.

His hands were shaking. Playing hide-and-seek with a priceless piece of art wasn’t right. He felt bad just holding the painting. He had to put it back.

Taking a deep breath, Luc slowly opened the door. The sound of voices down the hallway had him shutting it again. His heart slammed against his chest and continued pounding. He’d been lucky so far, but how long would that luck hold out? The surveillance cameras within the gallery and the lobby had been disabled, but the power could come back on at any minute. As he had been taking the painting from the wall, he’d thought he heard a noise coming from the back room. He’d convinced himself it was just his imagination—or his guilty conscience. Now he wasn’t so sure.

He had to stay calm. Think clearly. Not take any uncalculated risks. That had been his father’s mistake. Being reckless.

His job now was to stash this painting and figure out what to do with it by Monday.

The uneasiness he’d been experiencing all night intensified. Made him nauseated.

S
YLVIE SLOWLY OPENED
her eyes, a dreamy expression on her face. Small pools of daylight were advancing along the gallery’s wooden floors, extending into the small back room through the open door.

Morning.

Oh, God.

Sylvie bolted upright as the realization penetrated the soft fog around her brain. She bumped her head smack into Jefferson’s face. His presence next to her registered belatedly.

“Ow!” she cried, rubbing the spot where they’d made hard contact. She looked at him accusingly. “What are you doing?”

If his chin hurt, he gave no indication. “Watching you sleep.”

Sylvie stopped rubbing her head and stared at him. “Why?”

He was smiling. “Seemed like the thing to do.” Very gently, he ran his knuckles along her cheek. “It’s been a long time since I woke up beside someone.”

He made her catch her breath. She longed to draw out this moment, to savor it and just lie beside him, talking until they both ran out of things to say. And then maybe make love again. And to savor that, too.

But that was a life that belonged to the carefree woman she had once been, not to the responsible mother who not only had run this art gallery into the black, but was now also thinking about branching out to take over a second gallery, one that wasn’t af
filiated with the hotel or her family. Something of her own. That woman didn’t have time to linger with a brand-new lover, didn’t have time to waste on something that had no future.

Even if she ached to do so.

Sylvie reached out and touched his face. She had to go. The hotel would be recovering from whatever ill effects last night’s blackout had created. She would be needed, or at the very least missed. She didn’t want any search party to encounter her like this.

With effort, Sylvie banked down the sadness that was trying to take hold. “I have a life to get back to.”

Turning the hand that was against his cheek, Jefferson pressed a kiss to the center of her palm. He wasn’t trying to keep her. He, more than anyone, understood what it was like to have responsibility. It seemed ironic now to be losing what he’d just found because of it.

“Yes, I know.”

She felt a very real, very strong shiver up her spine. “You’re not helping.”

“Sorry.” The look in his eyes told her that he really wasn’t. Temptation loomed, large and demanding, its fingers reaching for her.

Sylvie dragged a hand through her hair. “What time is it?”

Jefferson glanced at his watch, the only thing that hadn’t come off last night. “Almost seven.”

That galvanized her. The gallery didn’t open until nine, but Charlotte was usually in her office by
seven, if she’d even gone home last night. What if she decided to swing by the gallery for a spot check? The last thing Sylvie wanted was to be discovered like this, naked beside an equally naked hotel guest. Never mind that Charlotte had arranged all this. That wouldn’t be the part that her sister would remember.

It had been very hard for Sylvie to live down her reputation, to get her family to take her seriously instead of just thinking of her as the wild one, the one who always screwed up. If any of them found out that instead of keeping vigil the way she was supposed to, she had spent the night making love with her “date,” she’d spend the rest of her life trying to atone for it.

Shifting off the sofa that had narrowly accommodated them both, she got up and began getting dressed.

Jefferson watched, fascinated. He could feel his body heating all over again. That made—what—three times? Four? He’d never been like this before.

“Need help?” he offered.

She glanced at his face, saw his expression. An image of a fox offering to feed a chicken flashed through her mind. She laughed, shaking her head. “Any help from you would be counterproductive.”

“You might have a point,” he agreed.

Swiftly, he hurried into his own clothes. Sylvie was already dressed and in the gallery proper as he was slipping on his jacket.

Her cry of alarm had him rushing out to see what had happened.

“What’s wrong?” Jefferson quickly scanned the
area for the source of her distress. There was no one else there, and nothing, at first glance, looked to be out of place.

It took Sylvie a second to find her voice. She felt shell-shocked, upset and angry, all at once. “It’s missing.”

She looked about to fly off in two directions at the same time. He put his hands on her shoulders, holding her in place. “What’s missing?” he asked, enunciating slowly.

“The Wyeth.” It was almost a sob. How could she have let this happen?
When
had it happened? Oh God, what was her grandmother going to say? What was her
mother
going to say?

“The Wyeth,” he repeated.

Sylvie pointed to the back wall.

“My grandmother’s…” Her voice trailed off. She tried again. “The Wyeth was on loan from my grandmother, and now…” How could this have happened? And why on her watch, of all things? “And now it’s not here. It was here last night, and now…” She struggled not to let panic get the better of her. “That noise,” she said suddenly, turning to him, her eyes wide. “That noise I told you that I thought I heard last night…it must have been the thieves.”

He wasn’t so sure. “The power failure had already hit the hotel by the time you got back here,” he reminded her. “Maybe whoever took the painting had already gotten it by then. If that’s the case, then it’s not your fault.”

The old Sylvie would have jumped at the possi
bility. But she knew that the scenario he’d described was improbable. She thought for a moment, trying hard to remember if the painting had been there when she’d done a cursory check after they’d first walked in. But it had been dark, and all she’d been thinking about was her growing attraction to Jefferson.

“I can’t remember if the space was empty or not,” she confessed. “I knew the other two paintings on that wall were gone—I loaned them to Maddy. So I didn’t pay much attention. I can’t say for sure if the Wyeth was there.” God did that sound lame, she thought, even to her own ears. What was it going to sound like to Mama and Charlotte?

He hesitated for a moment, then slipped his hand down her back in a gesture of comfort. “Do you want me to call the police?”

Her head jerked up, horror on her face. Police detectives coming into the gallery would do nothing to help the hotel’s reputation.

“Oh, God, no.” She realized how panicky she sounded and tempered her tone. “At least, not yet. If it turns out to be one of the guests…” Her brain was beginning to hurt. “Maybe something can be worked out. The hotel doesn’t need any bad publicity, any kind of notoriety, especially right now.”

“What’s so different about now?”

Sylvie waved her hand at the question. She’d already said too much to an outsider. “I’d like to keep this quiet for a little while….”

He read between the lines. “By ‘quiet,’ do you mean you want to keep this from everyone?”

Her eyes met his, and although she had no idea how he knew, she realized that he understood how important this was to her. How important it was to make it right. She pressed her lips together ruefully. “Little Sylvie screws up again.”

“We still don’t know it was your fault,” Jefferson told her. She made him want to do things for her, to make things right. “Want me to nose around a little?” Over the course of his career, he’d picked up some tips from the investigator his firm used. He could put them to use now.