by Nora Roberts
into two short days. She would unpack her things quickly and dive straight in.
She began outlining her stops as she watched London sweep by. When the limo stopped in front of a dignified town house she frowned and searched for the hotel.
No, she remembered with a jolt. Trevor had said “house,” not “hotel.” The man lived three thousand miles away in New York City and had a house in London.
Would wonders never cease?
Composing herself, she took the driver’s hand when he came around to her door.
“I’ll bring your bags straight in, Miss Gallagher.”
“Thank you very much.” She crossed over and started up the short set of steps between rigorously formal hedges, hoping she looked as though she knew what she was doing.
The door opened before she’d worked out whether she should knock or just go inside. A tall, slim man with a fringe of white hair bowed to her. “Miss Gallagher. I hope your trip was pleasant. I’m Stiles, Mr. Magee’s butler. We’re pleased to welcome you.”
“Thank you.” She started to offer her hand, stopped. That probably wasn’t done, particularly with British butlers.
“Would you care to see your room, or may we offer you some refreshment?”
“Ah, I’d like to see my room, if that’s convenient.”
“Of course. I’ll see to your luggage. Winthrup will show you upstairs.”
Winthrup moved forward with barely a sound, a wisp of a woman in the same formal black as the butler. Her hair was a colorless ash, quietly styled, her eyes pale as water behind thick lenses.
“Good morning, Miss Gallagher. If you’ll follow me, I’ll see you settled.”
Don’t gawk, you idiot . Trying desperately for casual, Darcy crossed the gleaming golden wood of the foyer, walked under the magnificence of the central chandelier, and started up the grandeur of the staircase.
She couldn’t say it was like a palace. It was too ruthlessly dignified for that. Like a museum, she thought, all polished and hushed and intimidating.
There was art on the walls, but she didn’t dare take time to study it. The walls themselves must have been papered in silk, so smooth and rich did they appear. She had to curl her fingers to keep them from touching.
The housekeeper, as she imagined Winthrup was the housekeeper, led the way down a corridor wainscoted in deep, rich wood. Darcy wondered how many rooms there were, how they were furnished, what she would see from the windows. Then Winthrup opened a deeply carved door onto luxury.
The bed was big as a lake, its four posters spearing toward the deeply coved ceiling. Darcy didn’t know what sort of rugs were spread over the polished floor, but she could tell they were old and magnificent.
Everything—chest of drawers, bureaus, mirrors, tables—was polished to mirror gleams. Dozens of white roses bloomed out of a crystal vase that she imagined weighed ten pounds if it weighed an ounce.
Draperies of deep forest green were tied back with gold tassels, framing the glinting glass.
There was a fireplace fashioned out of white marble veined with rose, and towering candlesticks flanked the mantel. More flowers, lilies this time, in that same blinding white stood in the center.
A cozy arrangement, plush chairs, polished tables, was set in a way that invited her to settle in.
“The sitting room is to the right and the master bath to the left.” Winthrup folded her thin hands. “Would you like me to unpack for you now, or would you prefer to rest a bit first?”
“I . . .” Darcy feared she might swallow her tongue. “Actually, I . . . no, I don’t need to rest, thank you just the same.”
“I’ll be happy to show you around the house if you like.”
“Do you think I might just wander about a bit?”
“Of course. Mr. Magee hopes you’ll make yourself at home here. You’ve only to push nine on the house phone to reach me, and eight to reach Stiles. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up.”
“I would, thank you very much.” On rubbery legs, Darcy started toward the bath. The hell with it, she thought, turned back. “Miss Winthrup, it’s a lovely room.”
Winthrup’s smile was as wispy as the rest of her, but it managed to soften her face a little. “Yes, it is.”
Darcy walked into the bath, deliberately shut her eyes and leaned back on the door. She felt as though she were in a play, or one of her own more creative dreams. But she wasn’t. It was real. She could feel her heart beating in her chest, and little thrills of sheer pleasure dancing over her skin.
She sighed once, then opened her eyes to simply grin at the bathroom.
They must’ve taken out another room to make it so large, she imagined. More flowers graced the long counter between two oval sinks. The tiles, floor, and walls were of a soft seafoam green, so it seemed you were in some lovely underwater fantasy.
The tub, with its wide ledge covered with lush, ferny plants, was surely big enough for three. The shower was separate, a room in itself, she thought as she moved closer to investigate. Behind the waving glass were a half a dozen nozzles. She imagined it was like bathing in a waterfall and nearly stripped down to the skin then and there to see if she was right.
More crystal was set about, little bowls and dishes holding fragrant soaps or rose petals, pretty bottles holding bath oils and bath salts and creams. She sat on a padded bench at a separate counter obviously designed for milady and studied her own flushed and delighted face in the mirror.
“You’ve arrived, haven’t you?”
Throughout his first meeting, and his second, Trevor kept Darcy tucked away. Or nearly. She had a baffling habit of popping out of the corner where he wanted her. Sliding out was more like it, he mused. Sneakily, sinuously sliding into his mind when it needed to be focused elsewhere. He glanced at his watch, again. There were hours yet before he could afford to focus on her. But when he did, by God, he’d make sure the wait was worth it.
“Trev?”
“Hmm?” When he realized he was scowling, he smoothed out his features, waved a hand in apology. “Sorry, Nigel. My mind wandered.”
“That’s a new one.”
Nigel Kelsey, the head of the London arm of Celtic Records, had a sharp eye, and sharper ears. He’d been with Trevor at Oxford, where they’d clicked. When the time had come to expand his personal baby into the international arena, Trevor had put the responsibility into Nigel’s trusted hands.
“Just shuffling items in my head. Let’s flip Shawn Gallagher to the top of the list.”
“Happy to.” Nigel sat back in his chair. He rarely used his desk, thought of it primarily as a prop.
He’d been earmarked to follow his father, and his father’s father, into law, a fate that even now caused him to shudder. He hadn’t wanted to thumb his nose at family tradition, precisely, but he was much happier putting what education he had to use doing something entertaining. Celtic Records was vastly entertaining, even if his old friend did run a tight ship. A tight ship, and a profitable one, Nigel thought now.
A ship that visited such fascinating ports. Part of his responsibilities, and he took them seriously, included attending parties, events, entertaining the talent. And doing it all on expense account.
“I’m negotiating with him one on one,” Trevor continued. “Two on one, if we count his wife. And we should. I’ve advised him to get an agent.” Nigel seemed a bit surprised, but Trevor only shrugged. “I like him, Nigel. And I intend to deal straight with him, since he won’t go through a representative.”
“You deal straight in any case, Trev. I’m the one who doesn’t mind slipping a card from the bottom of the deck now and again. Just to liven things up.”
“Not with him. Instinct tells me we’ve got a prize here, one that if left to his own pace will pay off for years.”
“I agree with you. His work’s brilliant, and very marketable.”
“There’s more.”
“Is there?” Nigel puzzled again when Trevor rose to wander the office. It wa
s a rare thing to see Trevor restless, to have the man let any restlessness show. Even to him. “I thought there might be when you scheduled this meeting in the middle of your other project.”
“He has a brother and a sister. I want the three of them to record his stuff, for the first release.”
Nigel frowned, drummed his hand, which was studded with rings. “Must be some brother and sister.”
“Believe me.”
“Still, Trev, you know it would be easier to market this package using an established artist.”
“I’m leaving it to you to find a way around that.” With a faint smile, Trevor turned back. “I’ve heard them. I want you to come to Ardmore for a couple of days. You listen, and if you think I’m wrong about this, we’ll talk again.”
“Ardmore.” Nigel winced, then twisted the tiny gold hoop in his earlobe. “Jesus, Trev, what’s an avowed ur-banite like myself going to do in a barely-on-the-map Irish seaside village?”
“Listen,” Trevor said simply. “There’s something about the Gallaghers, but before I push the point with them or with you, I want you to see and hear for yourself. I want an objective opinion.”
“And when hasn’t your own been objective?”
“There’s something about the Gallaghers,” Trevor said again. “Something about Ardmore, the area.” Unconsciously, he fingered the silver disk resting under his shirt. “Maybe it’s the goddamn air, I don’t know. I want you to come over. I want your take on it.”
Nigel lifted his hands, let them fall. “You’re the boss. I suppose I should see what there is about this place that’s caused you to sink so much time, money, and effort into your theater brainstorm.”
“It wasn’t a brainstorm. It’s a very solid business concept. Don’t snort,” Trevor warned, anticipating him.
“I never snort. I do occasionally guffaw, but I’ll resist.”
“Good. I have a new piece from Shawn Gallagher.” Trevor walked over, retrieved the sheet music from his briefcase. “Take a look.”
Nigel only smiled. “Rather hear it,” he said and gestured to the piano across the room.
“All right, but he’s orchestrated it for guitar, violin, and flute.”
“I’ll get the idea.” Nigel closed his eyes as Trevor walked to the piano. He himself couldn’t play a note, but he had an uncanny sense of music nonetheless.
And his antenna began to quiver as Trevor played the opening bars.
Quick, Nigel thought, lively, subtly sexy, and fun. Yes, Trevor was right, as always. They had a gold mine in Shawn Gallagher. And it wouldn’t hurt to meet the man face-to-face, he supposed, even if it did mean traveling to Ireland. God help him.
He listened, nodding to himself, then grinning when Trevor sang the lyrics. His friend had a strong voice, and still an easy one. But the words needed a female. Nigel recognized it at once.
I’ll have your hand
I’ll have your heart
I’ll have them all together.
For if you think I’ll settle for part,
Prepare for stormy weather.
Yes, a woman’s song, confident, even arrogant and sexy.
He opened his eyes again, and grinned as Trevor played it out. He wasn’t an easy sell, but his foot was tapping before the song was done.
“The man’s a fucking genius,” Nigel declared. “ Simple, straightforward lyrics in a tangle of complicated notes. Not everyone can sing that one and punch it.”
“No, but I have someone in mind who can. Make arrangements for Ardmore, Nigel.”
Nigel took a pull on the designer water that was never beyond arm’s reach. “If I must, I must. Now, is that the bulk of the business on our slate this afternoon?”
“The bulk, yes. Why?”
“Because I’d like to know, as an old and trusted friend, just what’s crawling around under your skin. You’re nervy, Trev, and it’s not usual for you.”
He didn’t like that it showed, was going to make damn sure it didn’t before he saw Darcy again. “There’s a woman.”
“Son, there’s always a woman.”
“Not like this one. I brought her with me.”
“Oh, did you now? That’s a new one.” Each word was stretched long and full of meaning. “And when do I get to have a look at her?”
Trevor sat again, ordered himself to relax. “Come to Ardmore,” he said and directed the conversation back to business.
ELEVEN
SHE WASN’T QUITE sure how to play it, and it did seem like being onstage. Should she be sitting in the splendor of the parlor having tea or a cocktail when Trevor returned? Or would it be more casual and sophisticated if she were up in the sitting room, passing the time with a book?
Perhaps she should take a walk and not be there at all.
In the end, not being sure of the lines or motivations of the character she appeared to be playing, Darcy prepared to dress for the evening. She took her time about it, and that was a luxury itself. Having buckets of time to loll in the bath, to make use of the lovely scented creams that were set about in antique bottles.
Better to be ready, she decided as she smoothed the silky lotion on her legs, and avoid any awkwardness of just how and where the two of them were going to dress for dinner. Sex, as she saw it, was the final act in today’s play, and she had to admit she was both eager for and nervous about the performance.
Yes, much wiser to meet him in the sophisticated mode, wearing the little black dress. She would indeed go down, have a cocktail, so when he came in she would be sitting in that almost terrifyingly formal parlor, all sort of lady-of-the-manorish.
Winthrup would probably serve little canapeÉs—or did the butler do that? Well, no matter. She could offer him one as if she did such things every day.
That was just how to play the part.
When scented and polished, she stepped out of the bath to the bedroom just as Trevor stepped in from the hall, her stomach did a shaky flip. Time to ad-lib, she thought and put on her best smile.
“Well, hello, there. I thought you’d be another hour or more.”
“I finished up early today.” He kept his eyes on hers as he closed the door behind him. “And how was your day?”
“Lovely, thank you.” Why couldn’t she get her legs to move? It would be far better if she could just stroll across the room. “I hope yours was successful.”
“It was worth the trip.”
As he stepped forward, she managed to shove herself away from the door, moved to the little table where she’d laid the bracelet. “I want to thank you for this. It’s beautiful, and extravagant, which is nearly as important. We both know I shouldn’t accept it.”
He closed the distance between them and, taking the bracelet, circled it around her wrist. “And we both know you will.” He fastened it with a quiet click that echoed in her head.
“I suppose we do. I’ve a hard time resisting the beautiful and extravagant.”
“Why resist?” Firmly, possessively, he laid his hands on her shoulders, ran them down the arms of her robe. “I don’t intend to.”
It wasn’t the way he’d planned it. He’d imagined it all very civilized. Drinks, then the sort of elegant dinner she’d enjoy, a quiet ride home, then a smooth, practiced seduction that would please them both.
But here she was, in that long robe, her skin warm and fragrant from her bath, her eyes wary and watchful.
Why resist?
His gaze held hers as he loosened the tie of her robe. He watched the heat flicker in that deep, deep blue, heard the quick and quiet catch of her breath. Lowering his mouth to hers, he captured that breath, skimmed his hands under the thin material to trail his fingers up and down her sides.
“Now.” He murmured it, surprised that he had to fight off a shudder at just the touch of his fingertips to her flesh.
“Well, then.” She let her body have its way, lifted her arms around him.
He meant to go slowly, to savor, to take them both up level by level. B
ut the moment her mouth answered his, the instant her body pressed to his, greed swallowed him. It was as if he’d been waiting his whole life to taste this, to touch this, to have this.
He jerked the robe off her shoulders and set his teeth on her.
She gave a muffled cry, both pleasure and shock. In that flash of heat, she forgot all about role playing, motivation, consequences. Desperate for more, she tugged at his jacket, yanked and pulled until it was in a heap on the floor. His mouth was savaging hers, her hands dragging at his tie as they stumbled to the bed.
Light going dim with evening poured through the windows, and the busy sounds of London traffic swished and coughed on the street below. The grand clock in the hall struck the hour of five. Then the only sound in the room were gasps and murmurs.
She rolled with him over the luxurious duvet, sinking in, sliding over. Her fingers fought with the buttons of his shirt, and his pulled her robe aside. The weight of him pushed her deep into the covers, like sinking into clouds of silk, she thought, then he took her breast in his mouth and she didn’t think at all.
Fire and light and the sharp saber points of desire, the wild, unsteady roll of sheer lust. It filled her, and burned in the blood, and pushed a raw cry of delight from her throat.
“Hurry.” She all but chanted it. “Hurry, hurry, hurry.” She’d die without him inside her. Frantically she struggled with the hook of his trousers.
His fingers shook. The roar in his head was a thousand waves pounding on a thousand rocks. All he knew was that to wait a moment longer would destroy him.
Her hips arched toward him, and he drove into her in one violent thrust.
Their twin groans rippled the air, and their eyes met— shock mirroring shock. For a heartbeat, then two, they stared at each other.
Then it was all movement, a frantic mating driven by hot blood. Flesh against flesh, the ragged strain of quickened breath, the low cry of a woman at peak. Bodies plunged together in a slick and sensuous dance.
She came again, staggered that there could be so much, so very much. As her hands slid limply onto the rumpled covers, she felt him fall with her. And thought he said her name.
She lay still, wrecked, wonderfully wrecked, with his face buried in her hair and his long, lovely body pressing hers into the bed. Now she knew, she thought, just what happened when his control snapped. And oh, it was a wild and marvelous thing.
His heart still hammered, she could feel it knocking against hers. Drifting on that gilded plateau of contentment, she turned her head and skimmed her lips over his shoulder.
That one gesture had him opening his eyes, struggling to clear his head again. She seemed soft as water under him, limp as melted wax and nothing like the frenzied woman who’d urged him to hurry. He knew he’d have taken her fast and hard in any case. He’d never needed anything, anyone, the way he’d needed Darcy at that moment. As if his very survival depended upon it.
A dangerous woman, he thought. And found he didn’t give a damn. He wanted her again. And again.
“Don’t go to sleep,” he murmured.
“I’m not.” But her voice was thick and rough and at the sound of it his blood heated once more. “I’m just considerably relaxed.” She opened her eyes and pondered the plasterwork of scrolls and stars on the ceiling. “And enjoying the view.”
“Late eighteenth century.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Amused, she stretched under him like a cat, then ran her hands over his back, more for her pleasure than his. “Would that be Georgian or rococo? I never can keep my historical periods straight.”