by Anne Stuart
“It is,” he replied shortly. “But I’m afraid I just finished it.” The lie came easily—for some reason he didn’t want Ashley swilling Anne’s precious cognac.
“Oh, well. I suppose I’ve had more than enough to drink. Anyway, as I was saying, Anne might have succeeded in breaking away from this house and her voracious family if she’d only chosen a bit more wisely.”
“Chosen what?”
“Her first love, dear boy. But I’m afraid her taste—as always, when it comes to men—was execrable. She developed a mad crush on some mindless jock, allowed herself to be seduced and pretty much abandoned when something more desirable came along.”
“And she developed a pathological hatred of men and a demented devotion to this house ever since?” Noah mocked. “Sorry, Ashley, I’m afraid it just won’t wash. Anne’s too wise and warmhearted to fit the picture you’ve drawn.”
“I didn’t say she hates men. She just keeps them in their place, and keeps her heart secure. Which is a neat trick—I wish I could master it. Her involvements in the last dozen years have been abominably civilized—I think she deliberately chooses the most boring men she can.” Ashley crossed his ankles with elegant preciseness. “Of course, it could be that she doesn’t want to compete with me. I rather like that notion.”
“Don’t count on it,” Noah said dryly, draining his cognac and wishing there was some way he could sneak some more without Ashley’s pale eyes discovering him.
“Well, then, we can simply accept the fact that she prefers to live a boringly mundane life. I’d watch myself if I were you, Grant.”
“What do you mean?”
“I may remind you that I know as well as anyone exactly why you’re here. And it wouldn’t do for you to get either emotionally or physically involved with my older sister. Holly’s a different matter, she knows the score. Leave Anne alone.” All mockery had left his voice, and Noah looked at him curiously.
“You are a protective older brother after all,” he mused.
“Only when I don’t have to exert myself too much,” Ashley replied with an airy wave of his hand, taking up his decadent persona once more. “Anne’s going to be hurt enough as it is; I don’t want to see it made any worse than it has to be.”
Noah looked up from his abstracted perusal of the fire. “Why does she have to be hurt? Have any of you really tried to talk with her about the house? She’s a very bright lady—surely she can see as well as the rest of you that the house has become unmanageable. I can’t believe she wouldn’t listen to reason.”
“Can’t you? Then you haven’t tried to discuss it with her. You heard her reaction at the dinner table tonight, you saw the blind panic. This house is her entire life—all her myriad other talents she relegates to minor status.”
“Other talents?”
“Anne has more ability in her little finger than the rest of her family put together. Holly’s a brilliant cellist, I’m a magnificent painter, Proffy was a great teacher. But Anne can do just about anything. She runs this house single-handedly, doing all the repair work; she paints, quite well, as a matter of fact, plays the piano. You’ve noticed Holly’s rather dashing dresses? Anne designed them and made them. I’ve been trying to get her to do something for me but she’s been too busy so far.”
“And those things aren’t enough to fill her life without the house?”
“She won’t let anything fill her life. I think she deliberately picked a dull stick like Wilson because he wouldn’t interfere with her precious house. But she’ll have to face reality sooner or later. The sooner the better. Nothing would be worse for her than to let this current state of affairs continue for another five years. By then I don’t think she could leave.” Ashley sighed.
“But you think she’ll leave now, if she has to,” Noah prodded.
“She’ll have to. She’ll hate us for a while.” His eyes met Noah’s, an enigmatic expression in their pale depths. “She’ll especially hate you. I trust that doesn’t disturb you?”
Noah shrugged. “Why should it?”
“I don’t know. Just an impression I got. That you may be somewhat enamored of my quiet little sister.”
Noah grinned. “I don’t think so, Ashley. I’m sorry Anne is going to get hurt, but it really has nothing to do with me.”
Ashley was unconvinced. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. Still, I’m not often wrong in matters of the heart. I could have sworn that there was something going on between you and Annie. But I suppose I’m just becoming sentimental in my old age. Aren’t I?”
Noah met his pale eyes across the room, and said nothing at all.
THE MOONLIGHT SHONE BRIGHTLY in her eyes, and not for the first time Anne regretted the fact that finances had prohibited curtains for the expanse of windows. Usually there was no need for them—it was the rare combination of moonlight reflecting off the snow and the presence of Noah Grant in the house that was effectively destroying her peace. Not to mention the surprising situation that seemed to have sprung up with her sister and her fiancé. It would require very clever handling, much tact and a fair amount of subterfuge to gracefully transfer Wilson to Holly’s eager arms. She was too tired to figure out how to do it and too restless to keep it out of her mind. Indeed, it was preferable to lying there in bed, thinking of Noah Grant’s blue, blue eyes.
A drink and some company might help, she realized belatedly. Perhaps she’d been too hasty in refusing a late-night cognac. After all, Proffy had only just gone to bed, and doubtless Ashley and Steve would still be wandering around. Add to that Holly’s imminent return and she would have been completely safe.
Of course, Holly had already been gone more than an hour on a drive that should normally take fifteen minutes. And Ashley and Steve were involved in their own little scene, whatever that was. Anne had the uncomfortable feeling that she didn’t want to know. And there was Noah. When he looked at her out of those Celtic Gypsy eyes of his, he could be trusted about as far as her own determination went. Which wasn’t very far.
It didn’t even go far enough to keep her in bed, safe behind a locked door, she realized with a sense of fatality as she threw aside her quilt and swung her bare feet to the floor. She was going to calmly dress, go up to the living room and drink a glass of cognac. And if Noah happened to be there, alone, she might very well sit with him for a while, waiting for Holly to return. After all, he wasn’t that dangerous—she’d never even tried telling him no. He’d probably back off immediately if she pulled away. More’s the pity.
The rose-colored silk caftan floated around her body like a cloud, and the mass of blue-black hair was a perfect frame for her pale, excited face. She didn’t bother with shoes, or with underwear for that matter. Why should she bother, she told herself righteously, when she probably wouldn’t see anyone?
The cognac was on the kitchen countertop where she’d left it. Pouring herself a small snifter, she started up the stairs toward the living room, her bare feet silent on the steps, the only sound the faint swish of the silk as it swirled around her body.
She paused with her hand on the doorknob when Ashley’s voice drifted faintly to her ears. Damn, she thought. He and Steve had taken over the living room. Maybe Noah’s in the library.
She turned toward that room, no longer fooling herself as to her intent, when Noah’s low, beautiful voice answered Ashley. Anne halted, motionless, her ears straining against her will.
“I leave it up to you, dear boy,” Ashley was saying. “I only hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do.” That usually melting drawl was clipped.
“I’d like you to remember my sister can be very vulnerable. It would be a very good idea if you were to concentrate on why you’re here, and not get distracted by Anne’s undeniably lovely charms.”
Without further hesitation Anne turned the doorknob, ashamed of herself for eavesdropping, her curiosity overpowering any urge to retreat quietly.
“I don’t think anyone’s going to drown in
my myriad charms, Ashley,” she said coolly, her dark-green eyes sweeping over the two of them. She expected them to shift guiltily, like the conspirators they sounded like through the closed door, but she was doomed to disappointment. Noah smiled that charming smile at her and Ashley waved an airy hand in her direction.
“I wondered where you’d gotten to,” her brother murmured. “Dressed for bed already, darling? I’m sorry if we disturbed you.”
“I wondered if Holly had gotten back yet.” It was a lame enough excuse but the best she could think of at the moment.
“You’d hear the car first, love.”
“I suppose I would,” she agreed, hesitating by the door. “What were you two talking about when I came in?”
“Eavesdroppers rarely hear good of themselves, Anne dearest,” Ashley said gently.
“Is that what you were talking about?” She kept her voice cool. “You mentioned something about why Noah is really here. I’d be interested to know why that is.”
Neither man showed the slightest trace of uneasiness. “I would think that’s more than obvious, Anne,” Ashley said easily. “He’s here to entertain our dear Holly, and to keep her from jumping your fiancé’s bones.”
Had everyone recognized the situation before she had? How could she have been so obtuse for so long? “I think she’ll run into some opposition from Wilson,” Anne replied, outwardly unmoved. “He’s a very honorable man.”
“Not to mention passionless,” Ashley cracked.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Anne murmured, more out of duty than truthfulness.
Noah set his brandy snifter down with a decided snap. Rising with a lithe grace, his wiry silhouette outlined by the glowing embers of the fire, he turned and met her calm gaze with an equally impassive expression. If his nostrils flared slightly at the sight of her body outlined by the light from the hall and that smiling mouth tightened somewhat, it was almost imperceptible. “Do you want me to go out looking for Holly?” he queried. “She might have run into a seasoned criminal.”
For a moment all discipline left Anne, and a rich chuckle escaped her as she remembered his horrible joke. “Damn you,” she said genially. “Wilson would never tell jokes like that,” she added as an afterthought.
“No one’s perfect,” Noah replied, his blue eyes warm with shared laughter.
“What are you two talking about?” Ashley, now that his level of alcohol had receded, was becoming increasingly bad-tempered, and he disliked above all things to be excluded.
“Private joke, Ashley,” Anne explained, her laughing green eyes still gazing happily enough into Noah’s. “Trust me, you wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“You’re at the point where you have private jokes?” Ashley inquired acidly. “How will Holly and Wilson view that?”
“I have absolutely no idea, nor do I care,” she said sweetly. “And thanks for the offer, Noah, but I’m sure Holly will be back soon enough. I’ll talk with her in the morning.” With a last tentative smile she disappeared back down to the kitchen, her bare feet silent and speedy on the wood floors.
“Dear Noah,” Ashley said lazily, “my hat is off to you. I think you missed your calling—you should have been a secret agent rather than a lawyer. You have a real talent for subterfuge.”
“Subterfuge seems to become more and more necessary for a lawyer,” he said shortly, thoroughly annoyed with himself and with Ashley’s mockery.
“Goes against your noble grain, does it? Then you must be enjoying the torments of the damned every time Anne smiles up at you.” Ashley laughed to himself, a soft, unpleasantly mocking sound. “Cheer up, old boy. Even if Anne never forgives you, what have you really lost? You’ll make a rather massive commission, I expect, and there are always other women.”
“I bow to your superior knowledge, Ashley.” Noah could be just as malicious if he chose. “Good night.”
Ashley watched him leave with sad, surprisingly sympathetic eyes. “Poor, dear fools,” he said softly. And catching up Anne’s forgotten brandy snifter, he drained it.
THE FLAGSTONE FLOOR WAS ICY cold beneath her bare feet, and her toes curled upward in protest. Anne paused outside her studio, her hand on the old brass doorknob as her eyes scanned the silent kitchen. There was a dim light left burning over the sink for any late-night glutton, the bottle of cognac was still gracing one tiled countertop, and the quiet dropping of the kitchen faucet made a soothing sound in the stillness. New washers again, Anne thought resignedly, moving back to pour herself another glass of brandy. She must have left hers upstairs. Well, there was no way in hell she was going back up there, even with such a solid excuse. She’d thrown herself in his way enough, when she knew full well she should keep her distance.
There were no more brandy snifters—indeed, all the glasses were in the dishwasher. With a rueful shrug she poured herself a generous splash into a cracked handleless teacup, draining the bottle before wandering back to the kitchen door. She stood there, sipping delicately at her cup of cognac and staring out into the still night. It was snowing again—great fat silent flakes drifting aimlessly down over the white landscape. Wrapping her arms around her, she leaned her forehead against the frosted glass of the door, dreaming childhood dreams.
She didn’t move when she heard him come down the narrow kitchen steps. She knew how he’d move without turning to look, with that graceful economy of motion, all fluid muscles and lean, wiry strength. His blue eyes would hold an unfathomable light in them, and his dark, Gypsy face would be intent. He knew she was there; there was no need for silly words of false surprise and coy hesitancy.
She felt the heat from his body directly behind her, and then his arms reached around her, pulling her gently back against him. Doubts and denials sprang to her mind and her lips, only to be silenced as his hands gently moved her arms away from their self-protective grasp, and one hand reached up to cup her breast through the barrier of her silk caftan.
She could tell herself it was the cold that hardened her nipples against the slowly rotating massage of his fingertips, the pad of his thumb brushing wickedly against the peak that shone darkly through the thin material. And she could tell herself it was the cold that made her lean back against his warm, strong body as if to absorb some of his heat.
But it wasn’t the chill that made her push her soft, straining breast up against his teasing hand, it wasn’t the cold that had her pressing her rounded buttocks against the iron-hard arousal directly behind her. And it wasn’t the cold that made her turn readily in his arms at his gentle pressure.
Those Celtic blue eyes were solemn as they stared down into her wide, vulnerable ones. He gave her more than enough time to move, to duck, as he calmly took the almost empty teacup from her nerveless hand. His mouth quirked up in a small, endearing smile as he realized the contents were far from the warm milk he’d envisioned. Placing the cup on the kitchen counter, he turned his attention back to her.
They stood there, inches apart. Her bare toes were brushing against the tips of his Frye boots, her hands hung uselessly at her sides, and her mouth opened to make some last token protest.
“Don’t say it, Annie love,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not just yet.” Reaching down, he caught her narrow wrists in his strong hands, pulling them up and around his waist. Her slender body flowed against his; hip, thigh and breast pressed close to his suddenly trembling body. His mouth slanted down over hers, taking possession with a beneficial ruthlessness, his tongue a welcome invader, slowly seducing her.
One strong, warm hand had slipped beneath the neckline of the caftan to capture her breast, and the feel of that rough, slightly callused skin against her soft, protected flesh sent a flame of desire through her. Instinctively her hips pressed up against his in mute response, and a slow trembling began from deep inside, building and spreading as his tongue and his hand continued their demoralizing work. She could feel his arousal harden against her, feel the tension threaded through his back as she clung to him, tilting h
er head back gladly beneath the sensual onslaught of his kiss. And she kissed him back, her tongue taking from him with savage delight the taste of the cognac, the rough texture of his tongue against hers bringing forth a small, acquiescent moan.
He moved his head back, still keeping her locked against him. His breath was coming rapidly, fanning her face with the sweetness of the cognac. “You know,” he murmured, “it’s even better when you help.” And his mouth sought hers again.
The caftan she had thought so alluring was proving more of a hindrance than a help. The neckline was too high to give him the access he wanted to her firm, rounded breasts, and there was no way he could dive under the full-length skirt with any amount of suavity. Besides, given her lack of underwear, he was bound to get distracted on the way up her trembling, pliant body. Maybe they could move to the daybed in her studio and lock the door.
No sooner had the thought entered her mind when she stiffened with sudden panic and self-loathing, the white flame of desire dying a slow, lingering death. Noah felt her withdrawal, and immediately his hold loosened, just enough to give her the semblance of freedom while still keeping her in reach, and his mouth released hers to travel along her flushed cheekbone to the delicate structure of her ear beneath the curtain of silky black hair.