Celesta nodded—Sally Sharpe would say that, too—and allowed him to cradle her on his lap in the large, comfortable chair she’d been held in as a child. Was this gentle, protective man the same rogue who had lured her into this tryst with threats of blackmail? He set aside his pipe and settled her against his chest, his dark eyes intent as he listened to the facts about everyone who had access to the sugar bowl. In these shadows, with his chestnut hair and low, soothing comments, he was reminiscent of the Ambrose Ransom who’d counseled her about her childish concerns so many years ago.
And as Damon listened to her thorough, if sniffle-ridden account, he reached the same conclusions: Patrick and Eula and Katherine each had the opportunity to lace the sugar with cyanide, but why would any of them want to? Rachel Montgomery had been a second mother to Patrick, an indispensable housekeeper to Eula—and her constant companion since Tom’s death—while Katherine had maintained the only ties she and Celesta had to the family Rachel forsook years ago.
He blinked and held her closer. There was another party to consider, someone who appeared to have less access to the Perkins pantry but whose feelings toward Rachel couldn’t be overlooked “What about Justine?” he whispered, as though voicing this possibility might make it true.
Celesta raised her head from his shoulder, frowning. “She never visited Eula—”
“How do you know she didn’t slip in while Eula was at one of her committee meetings?” he asked quietly. “You just said Katherine came through the house to find you that day, so why couldn’t Justine have dropped by while she was in town doing the shopping?”
All the air escaped her lungs at once. “But Justine shops so early, I don’t see how—oh, my.”
“What?”
Celesta focused huge eyes upon him, and he felt her shivering. “At that hour Eula’s still in bed, and on that particular morning Mama and I were rolling up rugs in the upstairs hallway. I—I guess she could’ve come in. ...”
“And after Katherine’s comment today about Justine feeling slighted because Rachel was the favorite, one has to wonder,” Damon pondered aloud. “Your mother hadn’t lived at Ransom Manor for more than twenty years, yet only now, when Rachel can no longer inherit the house, does Justine agree to redecorate it.”
Scowling, Celesta knuckled a last tear from her cheek. “But it was Katherine’s idea to have you come—”
“Which is just juicy enough to divert everyone’s attention from your mother’s mysterious demise, and exciting enough that Katherine won’t dwell upon the details, either.” He shrugged, brushing a midnight lock of hair from her shoulder. “Just a thought. No more feasible than suspecting anyone else, I suppose.”
It set her imagination to churning, though. Justine had never reconciled herself to her little sister’s favored status, even after Grandfather was gone. She never visited . . . didn’t cry at the funeral or offer to pay for it, and stood apart from the rest of them in the cemetery . . . and hadn’t Aunt Katherine said she’d been sprinkling rat poison down here, and had probably left it in the kitchen cupboard, unlabeled . . . could easily have concealed it in her market basket. The possibilities were endlessly frightening.
“Do you realize,” she said in a weak voice, “that everyone I know—everyone I’m close to—is a potential killer?”
Damon hugged her to his chest again, weaving his fingers through the silken strands of her fragrant hair. “Everyone but me, sweetheart,” he reminded her. “You and I will figure this out, and—”
“How long have you been in town, Frye?”
He was momentarily stunned by her icy demand. “Two weeks, but—”
“So you could have gone to the Perkins pantry, not realizing those crockery dishes were ours, figuring to get back at Patrick by—”
He slipped a firm thumb over her mouth. “Your writer’s imagination will drive you crazy if you don’t keep things in perspective,” he warned in a low voice. “I could have gotten into the house—anyone in town could’ve, apparently —and Mr. Perkins and I have our differences, it’s true. But I had sincerely hoped to avoid him altogether while I was on this Cruikshank job. Trust me, Celesta. It was pure coincidence that I saw him in the cemetery.”
Damon’s baritone was silky-smooth, very convincing, but again there was the issue of trust. As she studied his lamplit features, he returned her gaze with eyes as dark and uncompromising as midnight. It was farfetched to think he’d poisoned Mama . . . but his desire to avenge some previous grievance against Patrick Perkins was as evident as his determination to possess her. And the two causes were connected, for some reason. “I—I’d better leave—”
“It was also coincidence that I saw you there. Quite a happy one, I must say,” he murmured. His hand found the firm curve of her jaw beneath the curtain of her hair, retracing its initial course. “Tell me what I said when I lifted your veil, Celesta. I know you remember.”
Of all the underhanded ways to—of course his words were emblazoned in her mind, but only a hussy would beg for compliments by repeating—
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he whispered against her ear. His fingers freed the top button of her nightgown and then the next one. “I won’t let you go until I know you listen to me, and believe what I say.”
Her heart pounded weakly beneath the hand that whispered over her cotton gown while he crossed a leg to hold her more tightly. She was like a turtle turned onto its back, yet the danger Damon represented held her captive as surely as the arm that supported her shoulders. “You . . . you’re going to force me? Is that what you did to poor Lucy?”
“Absolutely not,” he replied more curtly than he intended to. She couldn’t know the circumstances surrounding Lucinda Bates’s demise any more than he could dispel the rumors by revealing them, so he continued in a low whisper. “Seduction’s far more enjoyable than rape, for both of us. You’ll know that before you leave me tonight, sweetheart.”
He felt Celesta’s pulse racing, took his time unfastening the rest of her placket and then ran his fingertip along the exposed vee of porcelain skin between her breasts. “You’ve read Dracula, haven’t you?”
She nodded, puzzled.
“Then, you’re aware of my methods,” he said with a throaty laugh. “The Count never attacks his victims. He always waits for them to invite him into their presence—can’t enjoy a beautiful woman unless she leaves a window open or goes for a late night stroll. Which makes his pursuit much more sporting.”
Celesta grunted. “That’s true as far as it goes. But he hypnotizes them—renders them helpless with his powerful red eyes. He’s always in control, and he knows it.”
As usual, her astute observations pleased him. Damon continued to stroke her, edging his hand beneath her nightgown until it ached to close over her trembling breast. “And what do you see in my eyes, Celesta?’’ he breathed. “Evil intent? Blackmail? Or are these the eyes of a man who’s falling prey to your powers?”
Celesta held her breath, unable to release herself from his riveting gaze. They were enveloped in absolute silence, save the exchange of their accelerated breathing. Damon’s lamplit face glowed beneath chestnut hair that draped his forehead at a rakish angle. His dark brows and virile, shadowed jaw were poised only inches above her as he waited ...to be invited in. “I see pure, unadulterated lust,” she finally replied in a tight voice.
“You’re wise beyond your years.” Frye’s fingers paused at the base of her throat, and he lightly brushed her temple with a kiss. “I have no heart to offer you, Celesta—I gave it away once and never got it back. But I can show you the splendor a man and a woman share when they truly understand one another. And once you’ve experienced the undeniable force that’s brought us together, you’ll be safe from men who want to steal your soul and give you nothing in return.”
Spellbound, she watched his lips and heard the alluring timbre of his voice, which promised no real protection at all. Like the vampire Count, he was in control and he knew it: he was offering to
claim her virtue before anyone else could while sacrificing nothing of equal value. When his fingers finally found the nipple that strained against her gown, she gasped.
And when Celesta’s firm, rounded breast quivered inside his palm for only a moment before she struggled up out of his lap, Frye wasn’t disappointed or surprised. He let her go, knowing her body would succumb after her mind did . . . after she realized that he, too, was in peril of losing himself.
She cowered a few feet away, at the edge of the lamp’s flickering light, clutching the front of her gown in one fist. Damon stood up, gazing steadily at her. If curiosity killed the cat, Celesta with the feline eyes was too far gone to leave now, so he began to undress. He disrobed slowly, folding his clothes over the chair to accustom her to the sight of him.
Unaware that she licked her lips, Celesta watched the most powerful body she’d ever seen being offered to her, one delectable section at a time. Square, broad shoulders . . . the chest she’d peeked at before now fully revealed, with its masculine swirls of hair tapering over a firm, narrow waist. Damon’s hips and thighs flexed as he bent to remove his shoes and then his trousers. And when he turned to face her, confident yet questioning, her eyes lingered on the proud, male part of him that beckoned to the very core of her being.
Damon stood silently, knowing his next move might send her skittering to the safety of her room. “I’m going to bed now,” he said softly. “You may either join me, or you may take the lamp upstairs and forever wonder why you didn’t.”
He stepped toward her, and she held her breath. Damon Frye was everything her mother had warned her against, and if Justine was eavesdropping, his words were condemnation enough. No virtuous girl would’ve wandered down here. No female in her right mind could expect to escape him unscathed. Sally Sharpe had dared her to investigate, but it was her own traitorous hand that clutched at wildfire rather than at the cool, solid handle of the lamp.
When her fingertips skimmed his bare hip, Damon’s heart danced. He gazed solemnly at her, giving her one last chance to redeem herself. Celesta’s eyes were wide, her lips parted in uncertainty, her breasts rising and falling beneath her thin cotton gown as she weighed the consequences of lingering here.
She lowered her head, causing her raven hair to drift around a heart-shaped segment of her face. “I . . . I’m afraid. I don’t know what to do.”
Her kittenlike cry made him close his eyes against a wave of intense longing. She stood there quavering in her white-clad innocence, and he realized as never before what a high price he’d demanded . . . what a momentous gift she was giving him. “Kiss me, Celesta,” he murmured. “The rest will come of its own accord.”
Damon’s broad palm caressed her jaw, bade her look up at him, but she stepped into his embrace of her own free will. He blessed her with the dearest smile she’d ever seen, and then she closed her eyes and offered her lips to him.
With a moan he enfolded her, vowing that when she left his arms Celesta Montgomery would be his, freely and forever. Perhaps her tender, trusting affections would reawaken the soul that had lain dormant for so long. And perhaps he’d only wish they could.
Damon’s lips moved firmly and fervently, and as his tongue asked hers to dance, Celesta’s head spun. The warmth of his bare skin penetrated her threadbare gown along the entire length of her body. Her arms encircled him, and then her inquisitive hands explored the smooth, velvety expanses of his muscled back as though they couldn’t get enough of his sleek splendor.
He ran his tongue along her sensitive jawline, delighting in her low laughter when she squirmed against him. As he kissed her supple neck, he parted the halves of her nightgown with feverish hands, eager to know every inch of her awakening body. When the gossamer fabric fell away from her shoulders, he paused to gaze at a pair of tiny pink rosebuds afloat on pert, perfect breasts. “You are lovely,” he breathed.
Celesta flushed with shy pride. “So are you.”
His pleasure rumbled in his chest as he pulled her close again, inhaling her wholesome, natural scent. “I’m going to kiss you all over, Celesta. If you get bored, glance in the mirrors,” he murmured against her ear. “We’ll make a fetching sight. My darker arms clutching your fairness . . . your midnight hair rippling over us like a waterfall.”
When his mouth brushed lightly down her throat and then descended upon one unsuspecting breast, she was too stunned to watch in the glass. Somehow her gown was slipping off her arms. As he massaged one aching nipple and then the other with his thorough, reverent mouth, Celesta arched against him, gripping his shoulders as her head lolled back in the utter ecstasy of his wet caress.
Could anything be finer than this madness he sent racing through her? The bare skin of his stomach seared hers. His manly, musky scent was a new sensation, as was the insistent ridge that was prodding her midsection. No longer afraid, Celesta savored the feel of his agile hands as they eased her gown over her hips just ahead of his eager mouth.
As he neared the alluring mass of curls above her legs, Damon glanced toward the mirror. Her abandonment was beautiful to behold: the sight of her shimmering black hair swaying behind her arched body ... the slender fingers that followed the curves of his arms, probably without her conscious knowledge . . . her indented waist as it ripened to lush, firm hips that appeared with the slow descent of her nightgown. Celesta’s eyes were closed, and her mouth was slack—until he knelt to caress with his tongue the little salty-sweet knot that would be her undoing.
A provocative moan slipped out of its own volition, and Celesta felt as though she might burst into flames. “Damon, I can’t—please don’t hurt me!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” he said. “These are new sensations that only seem like pain because you’ve never felt anything so intense. You’ll come to love them, I promise.”
Then he was standing, slipping behind her and encouraging her to look at their reflection in the oval glass. Three times, from three slightly different angles, she watched Damon’s hand come around to cup her breast while his other arm slithered possessively around her waist, a startling contrast to her pale skin.
Celesta stared, mesmerized, as his hand inched toward the dark mound of her womanhood, about to reveal yet another intimate secret she’d shared with no one else.
“Celesta, you’re truly celestial,” he quipped, “with two stars for eyes and white, round moons for hips, and a body that glows like the Milky Way. It’s a miracle I can stand behind you and not be lost in your wondrous light, honey.”
She knew he was distracting her with his words even as they watched his fingers part her tight curls. This time she was prepared for the shock of his touch, yet she shuddered against him, amazed that her body followed the compelling rhythm of his caress without her willing it to. He made her smolder and sigh. From out of nowhere came a voice she didn’t recognize as her own.
“Damon, lie with me now,” she breathed. “Take me slowly—but don’t you dare stop before we’re all the way there!”
“All the way to paradise?” he asked, nuzzling her warm neck.
“If that’s what you’re promising, that’s what I expect.”
Her dark eyes challenged his in the glass even as she was slipping beyond the realm of control, and as her lips parted with her rapid breathing she was by far the most alluring woman he’d ever held. “Your wish is my command,” he replied in a husky voice. “But once you’re mine you can never belong to anyone else, Celesta. It’s all or nothing. Are you ready for that?”
All she could do was inhale desperately, trying in vain to stay above the wild, whirling cyclone of emotions and feelings he was conjuring up with a single finger. Then he turned her in his arms and kissed her with an unbridled passion that made her reel, spiraling up toward dizzying heights she sensed she’d regret yet couldn’t refuse.
The sheets felt slick and cool when he pressed her into them. Damon’s gaze bored into hers as he paused, suspended above her, his dusky face alight with
a sweet, maddening smile. “Breathe with me, Celesta. Moan and sing with me as we become one,” he instructed. “Lovemaking is a duet best played to the fullest, a song we’ll want to share again and again.”
He rubbed lightly against her, teasing her with the hair on his chest to make her smile away the apprehension lurking behind her wide, green eyes. No doubt her women had warned her against this moment, calling it a sin if she wasn’t wed and a duty if she was, but he sought to free her from those spinsterish notions. A beauty like Celesta was born to soar on the wings of grandest passion, and he would show her how.
His voice vibrated deep and low, entreating her to hum along . . . Liebestraum, a dream of love. Celesta joined in, shyly at first, until his tender kiss reassured her. Damon stretched out, braced on his forearms to spare her his weight, all the while easing away her anxieties with his lips as he caressed her body with his. When his manhood found the slick, warm groove between her legs he rocked against her, still humming near her ear. “You feel wonderful, honey,” he whispered. “Moan with me now. Crescendo with your instincts. Don’t fight it, and you’ll understand why I’ve wanted to make love to you ever since I saw you, sweetheart.”
Too enthralled to reply, Celesta stroked the backs of his powerful legs with her feet. This was torment of the highest, sweetest degree, and when her lover’s moan told her she’d pleased him, she, too, joined in the primal song that thrummed between their bodies.
She was wet and warm, writhing beneath him, and since his probing fingers caused her no pain, Damon claimed her mouth and then quickly slid inside her. “Lord, you’re tight,” he rasped.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t be,” came his throaty command. “Wrap yourself around me and squeeze as only a woman can, Celesta. It’ll drive us both crazy.”
His deep thrusting made her cling to him until she realized there was no reason to brace herself, no reason to expect anything but the paradise Damon had promised now that the barrier between them was broken. She relaxed and followed his rhythmic lead, ecstatic when her tentative squeeze made him moan as though he were losing control.
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