One Dangerous Desire (Accidental Heirs)

by Christy Carlyle

  May leaned in a few inches too far, nearly tipping off balance, and he reached an arm out to catch her.

  “May,” he whispered, and she pressed into him. A tall, heated wall of a man who’d once been all she ever wanted. “One kiss, May.”

  When his other arm slid around her waist and he pulled her in, she eased onto her tiptoes. His spice and bergamot scent was new, but all the rest felt familiar. And right. So very right.

  She reached up to run a finger along the edge of that firm, square jaw of his, and he seemed to take the caress as her answer. He lowered his head and took her mouth. Not the sweet, gentle teasing of their first kiss but a deep, fierce reclaiming. Responding with her own fire, she loosed all her anger and regret, weeks and months and years of missing him. Reaching up, she slid her fingers through his hair, luxuriating in the softness and then gripping a handful to pull him closer. Mine. You should have been mine. She’d wanted him then. She wanted him now.

  When a moan rumbled between them, she knew he’d crashed past all her resentment, earning a bit of the forgiveness she’d spoken of so blithely. But it wasn’t her moan. It was his, and she opened to him, letting him slip his tongue between her lips, letting his hands wander from her waist. He gripped her backside and pulled her closer, then reached up to stroke the sensitive skin of her neck, then lower, tugging at her already low bodice, skimming the edge of her corset and chemise.

  She’d wanted this from the second she’d seen him again. Maybe she’d never stopped wanting him.

  Arching her back, May pushed against his hand, needing him to explore the places she’d never let him touch. Their past romance had consisted of a few stolen kisses. Wonderful, drugging, unforgettable kisses but too few of them. Propriety had kept her from allowing him more. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Now she’d give him everything and hold nothing back.

  He slid his mouth from hers and kissed her cheek, then dipped lower, touching his tongue to the edge of her ear, shooting shivers all the way to her toes. He lifted his head and kissed her other cheek, gently cupped her face in his hands, as if she was precious and he needed to touch her with care. Finally, he pressed his lips to her forehead.

  The gesture felt . . . strange. Comforting, reassuring, and yet completely at odds with the way his breath rasped ragged against her skin, the way the heat of his body steamed the front of her gown.

  Pulling back, he gazed at her, though she could barely make out his features in the darkness. “I wish you happiness, sweet, darling May.”

  Every inch of her body was on fire, but his words doused the flame.

  “You wish me happiness?” she whispered. Her throat wouldn’t allow for volume. It burned with the effort of saying those few words.

  He nodded and drew near to lean his forehead against hers, still cradling her cheeks between his palms. “Thank you for that kiss. I will always treasure it.” His voice broke as he whispered, “I’ll never forget.”

  Bracing both palms against the firm expanse of his chest, May pushed. Hard.

  Rex stumbled back.

  “Forget, Mr. Leighton. Please do forget any of this ever happened.”

  May whirled around and started toward the French doors that led back into Ashworth House. She ignored the rawness of her lips, the gallop of her heartbeat, the breath she couldn’t seem to catch, and focused on the night air. Its coolness was a refreshing contrast against her overheated skin.

  Fool! What did her father call the men he bested in business? Dupes. She’d take that label and more for allowing herself to believe, even for a moment, that she meant anything more to Rex Leighton than she had to the man he’d been back in New York. One kiss, he’d said, and she’d taken it and been willing to give him more. Clearly, he’d meant it to be the end. Foolish, gullible girl. That’s what her father had called her when he decried her infatuation with Reginald Cross.

  He could change his name, build the biggest hotel in London, become wealthier than her father at the height of his success, but she would never let the man break her heart again.

  “May, wait.”

  Not this time. She ignored his request and kept walking. Just on the verge of slamming the door behind her, a thought struck and made her turn back.

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “I’m glad.” He sounded wary, uncertain.

  Oh, she liked that. Let him be off kilter for a while, as she’d been since the moment he’d walked back into her life.

  “I don’t want you to forget, Mr. Leighton. I want you to remember. Because if I’m ever inclined to you kiss you again, I’ll need someone to remind me what complete and utter folly that would be.”

  His eyes widened a fraction, but he said nothing in response, so May turned and started back into the warmth of house.

  “You’re just going to stomp away like a spoiled child?”

  The taunt ignited her fear. Perhaps she was still that spoiled, gullible girl. Whatever she’d learned from the first time he’d broken her heart hadn’t stopped her from falling into his arms again tonight.

  It was time she shed fanciful notions about love and happily-ever-after. It was time to think and act practically, as her mother had always urged her to do.

  Glancing over her shoulder at Rex, a bulky shadow in the darkness, May drew in a breath and willed her voice not to shake. “Good-bye to you, Mr. Leighton, and all of this nonsense between us. I leave it behind me. I’ll take the duke’s wager.” She was speaking too fast. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. “Please know that I thoroughly intend to win.”

  Chapter Seven

  TWO DAYS LATER, Rex found himself summoned to Ashworth’s library-office. He sat in front of the man’s desk in the same uncomfortable chair he’d occupied during his first visit. Being in the duke’s house again unsettled him, but he trusted the tumbling in his gut would ease. And if Ashworth would cease flitting around behind him, his headache might wane too.

  The cluttered room, with books and Oriental pottery stacked everywhere, bore no resemblance to the house’s elegant drawing room. Yet his mind kept wandering to that upstairs space and his first sight of May in her ruby evening gown. The back garden terrace haunted him too, even if her good-bye had been the right choice. And it had been.

  She was right to put an end to it. Soon his body would catch up with the logic of it too.

  As for the duke’s wager—he simply had to win. There was no other option. Rex lifted his gaze to study the walls, carpet, and decorations in the room. As much as he’d be curious to see how May’s artistic mind might transform Ashworth House, he required the man’s funds. Finding another investor would take finagling for which he had no time or inclination.

  He’d wandered from rented home to rented home most of his life. It was time for permanence, something of his own.

  “Thorndike, welcome. Come and meet our young aspiring hotelier.”

  Grateful for a reason to stand and stretch his limbs, Rex rose from his chair and reached up to straighten his necktie before turning to greet the man who could change his life. He needed Thorndike to sell his prime piece of Mayfair real estate where the Pinnacle would stand.

  “Mr. Leighton, I trust you’ve been well.” Thorndike shook hands with a firm hold and met Rex’s gaze directly.

  “And you, sir.”

  Thorndike’s almost-smile buoyed Rex’s spirits. Sullivan had gathered information that a rival investor had recently shown interest in the property. Ashworth had been gracious enough to arrange a meeting with Thorndike so that Rex could present his case. Considering that Ashworth had yet to definitively back the venture financially, the last thing Rex needed was a bidding war.

  “Gentlemen, we’re waiting for one more guest to join us. Tea in the meantime?”

  Rex would have preferred something stronger. Whiskey. Brandy. Black coffee, at the very least. Instead, he nodded agreeably toward Ashworth.

  “Are these the plans for your hotel?” Thorndike followed the duke’s example and r
emained upright, prowling around the perimeter of the room. He’d stopped at Ashworth’s desk and stood staring down at the blueprint of the hotel.

  “That’s the Pinnacle.” Rex moved to the opposite side of the desk. He didn’t bother glancing down at the plans. He’d studied them for so long, the shapes and lines of the building were imprinted in his mind’s eye.

  “Is this your final venture, Mr. Leighton?” A frown crinkled Thorndike’s brow. “The pinnacle of your achievements? I’d rather thought you’d only just begun to make your mark.”

  “Oh, there will be more.” Rex rarely shared his long-term goals with anyone, expecting to hear himself denounced as unreasonable or his dreams deemed unachievable. He required no one’s encouragement to pursue his objectives. Drive burned inside him like a constantly fed coal furnace. “But I plan to make the hotel the crown of my achievements. As well as my home.”

  “You’ll live there?” Ashworth drew up to the desk and perused the plans again. He reached out a skeletal hand and pointed to the arched top of the building. “At the top, I take it.”

  “That’s the plan.” They weren’t the first aristocrats to scoff at his notion of living in the hotel. Every time he’d told a nobleman of his plans, he’d stared at Rex as if he’d gone mad. Apparently, gentlemen didn’t reside in businesses of their own making.

  “Is it safe?” Thorndike’s question was a familiar one. Rex found that curiosity about electricity was often matched by fear of it.

  “When installed correctly, used properly, and generated with safeguards in place, electricity is completely safe, Mr. Thorndike. I intend to employ a team of electrical engineers full time at the hotel, as well as a staff of men experienced with maintaining dynamo generators.”

  Thorndike tipped his head to indicate he’d heard the explanation, though Rex sensed he hadn’t quite convinced him.

  Ashworth snapped his gaze toward the door, and a few moments later a maid pushed in, not with the tea but the guest they’d been awaiting.

  “Mr. Sedgwick to see you, Your Grace.”

  Rex’s stomach no longer tumbled. It plummeted.

  Aside from grainy images in newspapers, he hadn’t laid eyes on Seymour Sedgwick in six years. The man strode in chest first, his stride clipped and feet planted wide with each step, as if he were marching down Fifth Avenue, leading a parade dedicated to his greatness.

  “Duke, thank you for the invitation.” He headed straight for Ashworth, his hand stuck out ahead of him. Ashworth exchanged niceties with Sedgwick and then turned to introduce Rex and Thorndike.

  Before the duke could say another word, Sedgwick’s gaze settled on Rex’s face, and the man’s skin took on a sickly pallor before slowly heating in a splotchy flush. He raised the same hand he’d held out to Ashworth and pointed in Rex’s direction. “What is he doing here?”

  “This is Rex Leighton,” Ashworth offered congenially. “He’s the other party interested in the property, Mr. Sedgwick. We thought it best to have the two of you here to discuss the merits of your ventures. My friend Thorndike has a difficult decision to make.”

  Staring into Sedgwick’s eyes, Rex couldn’t help but note how much their shade resembled May’s. They even creased in fury at the edges as hers did. Her anger had arrowed straight into his gut, struck a lifetime of regrets. But Sedgwick’s anger could destroy him. This man knew his sins. His secrets.

  They glared at each other across a tense silence. Thorndike’s and Ashworth’s gazes flitted between them, as if the men expected the outbreak of a brawl.

  Rex crossed the room, hand outstretched. “Mr. Sedgwick, your reputation precedes you.”

  Sedgwick’s mouth quirked at the edge and then opened, his jaw working as if he was chewing over the perfect condemnation to bring Rex and all of his plans crashing down.

  He shocked Rex by clasping his hand. “Never heard of you, Mr. Leighton. No reputation preceding you, apparently.”

  The duke hooted one of his strange chortles and slapped Sedgwick on the back. “Nonsense, Sedgwick. Leighton has been cutting quite a swath in London’s business circles, and you’ve been in the city for many months with your daughter, haven’t you? Surely you’ve heard of such a daring fellow American and entrepreneur.”

  Sedgwick stared at his host with a stony expression. “Not at all, but we haven’t come to compare reputations. Have we, gentlemen?”

  “No.” Thorndike’s voice boomed. “Ideas are what I’m after.”

  A housemaid wheeled in a tray covered with teacups daintier than any of the men in the room and piles of those damnably tiny finger sandwiches the English were so fond of.

  Tea wasn’t suitable for consumption, in Rex’s opinion, but being handed a cup provided a useful distraction. Holding onto the fragile porcelain without crushing it or spilling its contents gave him something to focus on, rather than the mystery of why Sedgwick failed to expose him when he had the chance. The man appeared truly shocked to see him, which meant May hadn’t spoken to her father of their encounter. That fact pleased him to an unreasonable degree.

  Sedgwick’s strident tones echoed in the room as he launched into a pitch for a new London branch of his department store chain. Rex suspected that neither Ashworth nor Thorndike knew of his stateside failures, as the newspapers had painted it as a change of venue for Sedgwick’s store, rather than a downfall.

  The man’s bluster hung in the air like London’s pea-soup fog. Rex refused to sit and be bombarded. He strode across the room, pulled the thick green drapes covering the room’s only window aside, and stared out onto the rows of whitewashed townhouses. He fought the urge to fix his gaze on the spot, just a few footsteps away from Ashworth’s front door, where he’d clashed with May.

  Other than eye color, nothing about Sedgwick reminded him of his daughter. The man smiled a good deal, but his curved lips carried none of the sincere pleasure of May’s grins. Damnation. He had to forget the woman. Even as he stood pondering her merits, he had a list of marriageable English noblewomen tucked in his waistcoat pocket. Ladies whose connections to men like Ashworth would bring him access and favor.

  “We’ll hear from you now, Mr. Leighton,” Ashworth called from the center of the room. Sedgwick had taken a seat next to Thorndike, and the duke lounged against the front edge of his desk.

  Discussing his plans invigorated him. If anything, Rex had learned to temper his enthusiasm when speaking of the hotel. Now careful words mattered more than ever. Ashworth and Thorndike were the two men who could set his plans in motion.

  He positioned himself where Sedgwick’s hard glare was out of his line of sight and began to describe the project that had occupied his mind for months.

  After listening a moment, Ashworth interjected, “Do you have any thoughts about Mr. Sedgwick’s venture?”

  Sedgwick shifted in his chair, exhaling a noisy sigh. Rex cast his gaze toward May’s father. Sedgwick might have been a bastard to him in the past, but the faltering entrepreneur was fighting for his future too. Until May married, the man’s fortunes, or lack thereof, would impact her life as well.

  Rex rolled his shoulders back and pivoted toward Ashworth. “As a project, the Pinnacle has the potential to exceed any success Mr. Sedgwick might expect with a department store in Mayfair. There is a Fortnum and Mason department store not two blocks from the site in question that would bring Sedgwick’s serious competition.”

  Who was he to worry about May Sedgwick’s future? She would marry some duke or earl and go on with her glittering life as a titled lady.

  He’d marry his own aristocratic lady and build the finest hotel London had ever seen. Acquiring Thorndike’s property would be the first step.

  “OH, MISS, THEY’LL have those colors everywhere. You know how particular your father is about his white carpet.” Just as the housekeeper whined the words in an ear-piercing screech, Poppy and Hyacinth Entwhistle, twin neighbor girls that May was teaching to paint in watercolor, jumped and skidded their paint brushes across
paper. A matching pair of pale blue eyes went as round as the balloons of colored water splattered on the table between them. Not, May was careful to note, on the off-white rug her father had chosen for their parlor.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Campbell. I’ll keep an eye on them. And the furnishings.”

  Before withdrawing, the housekeeper cast a fearsome glance first at Poppy and then at her sister.

  Hyacinth blew aside a strand of auburn hair that seemed determined to escape the yellow ribbon holding her tresses back. Before returning to her painting, she squinted angrily at the closed door. “Forgive me for saying it, miss, but she’s frightful.”

  “She’s overprotective,” May countered.

  “Of the carpet,” Poppy offered in her most strident tone. “What consequence is carpet compared to art?”

  May couldn’t disagree, no matter how clearly she envisioned her father’s face mottling with rage at the thought of two eleven-year-olds besmirching his pristine rug.

  “Wouldn’t it come out with bit of soap, in any case?” Hyacinth was the practical one.

  May leaned in to whisper. “Actually, it does. I’ve spilled a bit myself, and it cleans up beautifully.” She’d been using the room as a makeshift art studio for months.

  The girls’ chorus of giggles vied with the sounds of a commotion in the main hallway. Her father had come home, it seemed, and while she couldn’t make out what he was shouting about, he was less than pleased.

  May glanced at the mantel clock. “Perhaps we should start cleaning up, ladies. Your mama will be expecting you back by tea time.” Though the girls lived just two townhouses down, and her arrangement to teach them remained an informal one with no firm stopping time, May was determined to shield the twins from her father’s ire.

  Their giggles dropped in pitch to a series of ohs and must we’s. Lips protruded, shoulders sagged, and Poppy rolled her eyes. “I’ve only just started on this pony.”

  The tawny brown blob on Poppy’s paper looked more like a grouse at the moment, but May trusted that with a few more layers of color and a bit of shading, it would soon reveal a steed to rival Mr. Stubbs’s famous equine portraits in the National Gallery.