The Catspaw Collection

by Anne Stuart

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I thought you ought to have something to remind you of Francesca Berdahofski when you’re Mrs. Senator Merriam.”

  The shoes lay in her lap, and she stared down at them. She was used to tears. She cried when she was frightened, she cried when she was unhappy. But she couldn’t understand why she felt like crying right then, why the tears were stinging her eyelids, burning the back of her throat, taking control of her body so that she sat there and shook, imperceptibly, as Blackheart watched her out of distant eyes.

  She felt him rise from the love seat, saw the strong, beautiful hand place the empty whiskey glass on the coffee table in front of her. “Good-bye, Ferris,” he said gently, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Have a good life.”

  His lips brushed her cheek gently, and he could taste the dampness on his lips. He drew back, startled, as she turned her tear-streaked face up to him. “Don’t call me Ferris,” she said with great, hiccupping sobs. “I hate that damned name.”

  “Francesca . . .” She could feel his hand on her shoulder, the fingers strong and warm on her bare skin.

  She raised her head. “And don’t you dare leave me,” she added, her voice raw with tears. “Don’t you dare.”

  It was too dark in the room to see his face through her blur of tears, but his voice was clear, with a thread of warm laughter running through it. “Oh, love, I wouldn’t think of it.” And he drew her weeping body off the couch.

  Chapter Fifteen

  SHE TUMBLED INTO his arms, the tears coming faster and more freely. She could feel the tender laughter shake his strong body as he held her there, the two of them in a tangle on the floor, trapped between the love seat and the coffee table. Gentle hands held her, cradled her against that smooth chest, as she wept furiously.

  It was a very long time before the storm of tears abated. One long finger reached up and brushed her tears away, and when they had finally slowed he shifted to a more comfortable position, holding her shivering body in his arms as he kicked the table away from them and leaned back against the sofa.

  “Such a great many tears,” he whispered against her cloud of hair. “Did the good senator jilt you?”

  She managed a watery chuckle. “Pig,” she said comfortably. “I’m about to jilt the good senator. How do you do this to me, Blackheart?”

  “Well, first I get you off balance, then I pull you into my arms, and then—” his mouth feathered hers “—I kiss you. Not too hard—” he did it again, lingering a moment “—just enough to distract you. Then I move my hand, like this “ His strong hand moved up to cup her chin, holding it gently in place as he kissed her again, and this time, when his soft, tempting lips left hers, she emitted a tiny moan, her tears forgotten. “And then, when I think you’re ready for it, I kiss you again. A little longer, a little deeper.” His mouth dropped once more onto hers, nibbling, tantalizing, the gentle pressure of his fingers on her jaw opening her mouth beneath his.

  Slowly, delicately, his tongue slid into her mouth, gently exploring the secrets of the soft interior, and for the moment she lay quiescent against him, glorying in the feel of him. With the gentle prompting of his tongue she began to kiss him back, sliding her bare arms around his neck and meeting him thrust for thrust, the glorious hot wetness of their mouths causing tremors of desire to twist and turn through her body.

  She could feel his hand fumbling in front of her, and a moment later the neckline plunged to its lowest level, the silver cord loosely entwined in Blackheart’s clever fingers. Reluctantly he pulled his mouth away from hers. “There,” he said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I first saw you tonight. Covering up all that beautiful flesh is a crime against nature.” Leaning down, his hot, wet mouth traced random, teasing patterns along the tops of her almost exposed breasts as his hands cupped their lush fullness.

  Ferris moaned, deep in the back of her throat, and arched against his hand and mouth. The silky covering was frustration beyond bearing, but she didn’t know how to tell him.

  There was no need. Another gentle tug of the silken cord, and the dress tumbled to her waist. His warm, damp mouth followed, catching one hardened peak with practiced care as his hand tended the other. His tongue swirled, teased, enticed, and she could feel a knot of wanting so strong that hurt twisted deep inside her, between her legs. She could feel him beneath her soft hips, hard and pulsing against her tender, silk-covered flesh, and the knot twisted again, so that she cried out with the pain of it.

  She wanted him with a longing she’d never felt before. She wanted his warm bare skin beneath her fingers, smooth and hot and hard beneath her mouth, she wanted him above her, beneath her, around her and in her, she wanted to melt into the golden wonder of his body and never escape. She wanted him and she didn’t know what to do.

  Slowly, reluctantly, his mouth moved from her breast, leaving a warm wet path across her exposed skin as he reached for her mouth again. This time she was more than ready for him, kissing him with all the passion and aching love that had been locked away for too long.

  When he finally broke away he was as breathless as she was, and his heartbeat thudded against her hand. His eyes were staring down into hers with dreamy desire, a desire that matched hers, a desire she could no longer control.

  “Will you go to bed with me, Francesca?” he asked, the words slow and quiet and very distinct.

  She wanted to sink against him with a helpless sigh, she wanted to fill his mouth with hers so that there’d be no more room for words. But she owed him more than that. “Yes, Blackheart. Please. Take me to bed and show me what it can be like.”

  He was very strong indeed. He lifted her effortlessly in his arms, rising from their cramped position on the floor with fluid grace. He moved through the darkened, twisting apartment with the eyes of a cat, with never a misstep. The first gray light of dawn was spreading over the city as he drew her down on the bed, and his hands were gentle as he settled her among the tumbled pillows.

  Slowly, deftly, his hands withdrew down the length of her body, bringing the silky gown with him. He tossed it on the floor with a disregard worthy of Ferris at her most slothful, and stood there at the foot of the bed, watching her out of warm, wanting eyes.

  She could feel the intensity of his gaze washing over her, her long legs, the skimpy swathe of silken panties across her hips, the smooth torso with its gently curved stomach and her full, aching breasts.

  He stripped the turtleneck over his head with one swift move, kicking off his boots as he did so. She looked away as he reached for his belt buckle, and the sound of his soft laughter mingled with the rasp of the zipper, the rough slide of denim against flesh.

  “Such a chicken,” he chided, and in the morning twilight she dared a furtive peek at him. “Haven’t you ever seen Playgirl?” He slid into bed with her, dropping his jeans within easy reach beside the bed.

  With sudden nervousness she nodded, keeping her eyes firmly fastened to his face and nowhere lower.

  “Well, I’m just like them,” he said, and his hands began a warm, reassuring stroking along her bare arm.

  “There seems to be a lot more of you,” she said gruffly.

  Leaning over, he kissed her gently on the mouth. “Nothing more than you can handle, I promise you.”

  “Are you sure?” Her voice was plainly doubtful, and she cast a nervous, scuttling glance downward before returning to his face.

  Slowly, carefully, so as not to frighten her, his hand slid down her arm until he reached her wrist. He brought her hand to his mouth, kissing each trembling finger, one by one, letting his tongue gently caress her palm. And then he placed her open, relaxed hand on his chest, letting her become accustomed to the feel of his flesh against her, the muscle and hardness. Slowly he moved her hand downward, sensitive to her slightest hesitation. Her eyes met his,
mesmerized, as he brought her hand down to meet his swollen cock.

  The quick intake of breath was his own, and when he opened his eyes again she was smiling at him. “There,” he breathed. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

  She shook her head. He released her wrist, but her hand stayed where it was, the fingers cool and curious on his fevered skin. Slowly she encircled him, tugging gently, and he moaned softly.

  She pulled away, suddenly skittish. “Did I hurt you?”

  With a lazy smile he shook his head, recapturing her curious hand. “It feels very good,” he whispered against her lips. “Too good.” And he moved his hands to her waiting body, encircling her waist with his long deft fingers. They traced a path across her gently rounded stomach, slid inside the skimpy bikini panties and drew them downward over her unresisting legs.

  “Oh, love,” he breathed, “you are so very beautiful.” Gently, carefully he nuzzled her full breasts as his hands moved back up her legs, sliding inexorably toward their ultimate goal.

  He found her then, one large, strong hand reaching the damp, heated core of her, and she bit back a cry of part frustration, part joy, part unadulterated panic. Her legs instinctively clamped together, and her hands left the delights of his body to ward him off.

  He was prepared for the panic. One hand caught her wrists in a gentle but unbreakable grip, and he threw a strongly muscled leg over hers, pulling them apart. She whimpered, struggling for a moment, and then she saw the stark whiteness of the scar along the length of his leg. There were two of them, running parallel from mid-calf to mid-thigh. And suddenly the fight left her. This was Blackheart, her nemesis, a man who had somehow managed to get closer to her than any human being outside her family ever had. And he was about to get even closer.

  “Let go of my hands,” she whispered. He must have felt the change, felt the tension leave her. He released her wrists, and she twined her arms around his waist, pulling herself up close to him, pressing her breasts against the smooth planes of his chest, pressing her trembling hips against that frightening, enticing arousal, pressing her mouth hungrily against his, giving and receiving a kiss that was a release in itself, and this time when his hand slid down over the gentle curve of her hip she turned for him, opening her legs at his gentle urging.

  She hadn’t known it could be so sweet. His hands were clever, so clever, and she could feel that burning need within her escalate out of control, until she knew she’d explode if she had to wait any longer. She touched him, and he was as damp as she was. She looked up through a haze of desire, puzzled, and his warm laugh shook against her swollen breasts.

  “It’s just me, wanting you,” he said softly, his lips brushing hers, and she smiled against his mouth.

  “Me too,” she whispered. “Now, Blackheart. Please.” Her voice was plaintive, polite, and he kissed her again.

  “In a moment.” Once more his hand reached down, the gentle, insinuating strokes preparing her for a more overwhelming invasion. She arched against his hand, her eyes closed, her senses slipping away.

  And then his body covered her, and she could feel him against her, hard and strong and needful. She wasn’t expecting the pain, the sharp burning of stubbornly resisting flesh. Her quiet moan turned into a whimper as he pressed against her, and she could feel his hands on her hips, holding her still for his steady invasion. When he came to rest, deep inside her, he was panting, beads of sweat sparkling against the dark planes of his face, and his tawny brown eyes were sorrow-filled.

  “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, and she could feel the tension in his body, the rigid control in his muscles as he held himself above her.

  Already the pain had begun to recede, in its place a wonderful lassitude that overlay that still-burning need that she didn’t quite understand. She smiled up at him, love and longing all mixed up in a dazed, dreamy expression. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “It’s more than okay. It’s . . . very . . . nice.” The words drifted in a gasp of pleasure as he began to move, as his iron control began to melt within the heat of her body. The hands that held her hips slid down and wrapped her legs around him, and his mouth caught hers in a searing kiss.

  And she was lost, lost in the tumble of flesh, pulsing heat and aching want that somehow coalesced through the shifting, pounding rhythms of his body and hers. She was there, floating, dreaming, awash in a current of slumbering sensual wanderings, when suddenly it peaked, and she was gone, exploding into some starry universe with only Blackheart for safety.

  In the distance she felt him collapse against her, felt the shudders rack his body, heard the distant echo of his voice. What had he said to her, when she was consumed in that fiery tumult? She could no longer hear the distant echo of the words.

  But the vast sense of well-being had washed over her body and now enveloped her in a cocoon that was too strong to be denied. Her low wail of despair when he gently extricated himself from her embrace was greeted with a low, loving laugh.

  “I’ll be right back, love,” he whispered. She was too sleepy and too peaceful to open her eyes, to ask him where he was going. She heard the water running in the bathroom, and then he was back beside her, traversing the huge bed with far more grace than she usually managed.

  “What’re you doing?” she murmured sleepily.

  “Administering first aid.” A cool, wet cloth was placed between her legs, and then he drew her into the circle of his arms, her head resting naturally against his shoulder. “Poor angel,” he murmured. “Are you feeling battered?”

  “Gloriously abused,” she murmured sleepily against his smooth skin. “Are you going to make a habit of this?” The moment the sleepy words were out of her mouth she could have bit her tongue. She had been determined not to make demands her body and soul and heart craved. But it was hard to be strong and independent when you were lying in your lover’s arms.

  If Blackheart felt her withdrawal, he didn’t comment on it. “As often as I can. Would you fancy a pair of green shoes next?”

  She should have been furious. Instead she giggled. His strong hand reached up and brushed the tumbled hair away from her flushed, sleepy face. “I like to hear you laugh. You should do it more often.” He kissed her nose. “Do you have any regrets?”

  “Fishing for compliments, Blackheart?”

  “Just curious.”

  “You’re asking me if I should have surrendered my virginity on my wedding night to a rich, handsome man who happens to love me, rather than lose it to a sneak thief who’s offered me nothing.” She said it baldly.

  “Don’t forget the shoes,” he said lightly, but she could feel the tension in his arms. “Answer me, Francesca. Are you sorry you didn’t give the good senator his pound of flesh?”

  She smiled against his sweat-damp skin. How unlike Blackheart to need reassurance. She never would have thought he’d suffer from a guilty conscience. “No.”

  “No?” he echoed.

  “No, I don’t regret it. No, I don’t wish I’d waited for Phillip. I’m content. Blissfully, gloriously content.” She snuggled closer and felt the tension leave his body as his arm drew her even closer.

  They were silent for a while, and Ferris was almost asleep when his warm, sweet voice broke through her lethargy. “You forgot to ask.”

  “Forgot to ask what?” she murmured.

  “You don’t want to end up like your brothers and sisters, do you? Or did you do something about it?”

  “No.” Ferris was suddenly wide awake, pulling her protesting body out of his arms in sudden horror. “Oh, God, no! I forgot all about it.”

  Blackheart laughed, a heartless laugh. “That must be a first for you.”

  “This isn’t a laughing matter, Blackheart. It’s just the wrong time of month, and I—”

  “Hush, love.” He was still laughing, and his hands were gentle as he
pulled her back to him. “There’s nothing to worry about. I took care of it.”

  “You did? Why didn’t I notice?” She nestled back against him, still doubtful.

  “You were, uh, otherwise occupied. Don’t worry, sweetheart—next time I’ll let you help me.”

  “Are you sure . . . ?”

  “I’m sure, love.” Reaching down, he rummaged through the jeans he’d dropped beside the bed, and a moment later half a dozen silver packets rained down on her. “Satisfied?”

  “Silly question,” she murmured, her hand drifting lazily downward across his stomach. She watched with interest as the muscles contracted. “Blackheart?”

  “Mmmmh?”

  “Thank you.”

  He looked down at her, a lazy smile lighting his face. “My pleasure, love. My pleasure.”

  SHE DIDN’T WANT to hear the pounding. She felt too good, lying curled up against Blackheart’s warm skin, his arm possessive around her sleeping body. She didn’t know when they’d gone to sleep the final time—there wasn’t a clock in sight and she hadn’t really cared. Her body ached in a thousand places, she ought to get up and have a long soak in the tub, but she had no intention of moving until she absolutely had to. The last thing she wanted was for reality to intrude.

  But the damned pounding continued, and she felt Blackheart stir beside her. “Who’s that?” he whispered against her ear, his tongue making tiny, darting forays that were stirring fires better left banked, given her physical condition.

  “Nobody I want to see,” she replied, moving closer and pressing up against him. “They can’t know we’re here. Let’s just pretend we went to Australia.”

  Blackheart looked disturbed and overwhelmingly young in the late morning light. His long brown hair was rumpled around his sleepy face, and the white quilt they’d thrown over them sometime during the night made his tanned skin stand out in golden contrast.

  But at that moment the pounding ceased, and Ferris breathed a sigh of relief. “It was the landlord, wanting to know if I had a man in here,” she said, pushing him back against the sheets.