Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Frye turned the pages until he came upon a piece that would be more of a challenge. “This’ll be for you, Katherine,” he said. “I’m sure you know it.”

  Celesta smiled fondly at him, and as they began the graceful “Tales from the Vienna Woods,” she let the three-quarter time woo her, just as Damon was with his glances and whispered comments.

  “I want you naked,” he murmured.

  “Keep it in your pants or Katherine might attack you,” she replied with a muffled giggle. “Just look at her.”

  Indeed, Katherine was dreamy-eyed, her needlework lying in her lap as she nodded her head to the music. The other aunt, he noted, was watching them with keen interest, yet he also sensed . . . approval in her gaze. How far they’d all come, considering petty bickering had once been the sister-in-laws’ main mode of communication.

  When the waltz ended, Katherine expressed heartfelt thanks, and the elder Ransom stood up. “It’s been an evening of rare loveliness,” she said a little awkwardly, “and I’ll retire to sweet dreams, I’m sure. Good night, all.”

  After another song, the younger aunt also pretended to be sleepy, leaving the two of them alone in the music room. The evening shadows were soothing, and as Celesta snuggled against the arm Damon slipped around her, she felt blissfully complete. “You are a magician,” she whispered.

  He kissed her softly. “And for my next trick, I’ll make your clothes disappear.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “I’ve made myself wait,” he replied as he pulled her closer. “I want you desperately, Celesta, and now I bet I could stumble up the stairs to your room and no one would stop me.”

  Her heart thudded uncontrollably. “I don’t think we should risk—Justine’s room is only—”

  “I’ll take care of everything, sweetheart,” he promised, hushing her by caressing her delectable lips with his fingertip. “Wait for me in the alcove, wearing the white gown you wore the first time. I can already see the moonlight glowing in its folds as I peel it off you.”

  “But Justine’ll be right underneath—”

  “Think again,” he said, and then kissed her lightly. “The alcove is directly above Justine’s balcony. The ballroom wall is where her bedroom actually begins, so the groaning of the sofa—and your screams of wild abandon—won’t be a problem. Besides, she’s just getting started on ‘The Golden Bounty.’ She won’t notice anything.”

  “But she’ll hear us through the grate in the floor, and—”

  “Trust me, love,” he murmured, and with a final, lingering kiss he scooted the bench back. “I want to see you drenched in moonlit splendor tonight, feel the evening breeze wafting over our bodies. See you in white, in the alcove. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Chapter 17

  An hour later, Celesta was still waiting, wondering if this was Frye’s idea of a joke. The house was absolutely quiet, so she would’ve heard the secretive creak on the stairs if he were coming. What was taking him so long? Surely he hadn’t removed his clothes first! Maybe Katherine had slipped down to the cellar and quizzed him about his future plans: she’d been upset when Justine suggested he might wish to remain in St. Louis. Maybe his expensive dessert had been a farewell, despite the discussion about installing the two bathrooms. Maybe . . .

  Maybe his romantic ramblings about the moonlight were just pretty lies—he’d been known to tell some—and the whole evening had only been a wishful dream where everyone had played along because they wanted it to be so. Celesta sighed, gazing at the pastel patterns of light on the board floor, a muted mosaic created by the full moon beaming through the open rose window.

  She glanced toward the ballroom. Pale light and a wisp of smoke came up through the floor grate, whetting her curiosity. What a twist, to imagine Justine glued to the suggestive repartee in “The Golden Bounty” while the real Sally and Dare made love in the room above her!

  Setting her disappointment aside for now, Celesta knelt and then slowly crawled over for a peek down the grate. Sure enough, her aunt’s hair draped her shoulders in silver while she stared spellbound at a sketch of Damon and Sally setting up camp. And, as before, Justine was listening to something through the earpieces of her phonograph, her cigarette in the fork of her fingers. Her rapt expression gave Celesta goose bumps. Here was a loyal reader!

  Frye shuffled very, very carefully along the ledge that passed beneath the portico’s rose window, praying the wood wouldn’t give way under his weight. The glass panel was raised, so he didn’t have to knock on it, thank God—but the sight that greeted him made the strenuous climb worth the effort. Celesta was on her knees, framed by the arched entryway to the ballroom, and her shapely, night-gowned behind was pointed directly at him.

  He couldn’t laugh, or she’d cry out. So he carefully lifted one leg over the casement, balanced, and then dropped to the alcove floor with a soft thump.

  Celesta stifled a gasp and turned to find him grinning at her. She remained crouched by the grate, watching him. By God, she refused to throw herself into his arms until he knew how upset she was!

  As he removed his shirt, Damon saw the sparks in her eyes and wished he’d taken the more dangerous route up the stairs. “I wanted to surprise you,” he said softly, “but I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to climb that tree by the balcony and then shinny up to the window, with a bottle stuffed down my pants.”

  It sounded totally unbelievable, but he was setting a champagne bottle on the secretary, and he had come through the window! She walked toward him, feigning indignation. “That’s your excuse?” she said in a harsh whisper. “And I suppose you didn’t remember to bring goblets? If you think I’m going to drink out of the bottle like some common drunkard—”

  “Common drunkards can’t afford this champagne,” he replied as he caught her by the wrist and pulled her against his bare chest. “Nor do they generally wear such translucent nightgowns, or—oh, come here, you!”

  His mouth overtook hers, and Celesta forgave his tardiness with a ravenous kiss that left them both panting. “You’ve been eating chocolates,” she accused.

  “I brought the rest up for you.”

  When he reached behind him to pull the candy box from his waistband, Celesta gaped. That was a new bottle of champagne on the desk, and a copy of her story was rolled into his hip pocket, and—

  “How on earth did you make that climb with all these things stuffed into—why, you couldn’t possibly bend at the waist!”

  “I realized that, halfway up the damn tree,” he said with a chuckle, “but the real problem was that other thing in my pants. It started misbehaving the moment it realized we were sneaking up to see you, and now there’s no controlling it.”

  Slipping her hand between their bodies, Celesta smiled slyly. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Frye.”

  When her warm palm closed around him, Damon shut his eyes. “Slow down, honey. I thought we’d enjoy a little champagne and literature before we—”

  “There’s a time and place for all that culture, and it’s not now.” To drive her point home, Celesta crouched and began to gnaw gently on the ridge in his pants while she unfastened his belt.

  Her bold advance made all thoughts of a slow seduction evaporate. She’d played many parts in the weeks since he’d claimed her, and now the hot-blooded wanton who was peeling down his pants was too compelling to be denied. He shoved her gown over her shoulders, sending the little buttons skittering across the floor. Their clothing trailed between the window and the old settee, and then they were at each other, writhing and entwining their limbs like impassioned snakes.

  It was swift and primal, made more intense by the confines of the couch and the silence they forced upon themselves. Awed before, Celesta now realized how powerful such lovemaking could be as her body arched and responded without waiting for her mind to instruct it. Release came in a cataclysmic rush, and she stifled her scream against Damon’s heaving chest. He was unable to unwrap himself for several m
inutes.

  Neither of them spoke. He gradually became aware of the soft breasts pressing rhythmically against him and of silken ebony strands teasing his cheek, and he inhaled the glorious scent of her sated body. When he opened his eyes, Celesta’s sweet, girlish smile made him tingle all over with the realization that he loved her.

  She shook the last wisps of fog away and breathed deeply to still the rapid staccato of her heart. He had her pinned beneath his solid weight, yet she’d never felt freer—and she didn’t want to stir for fear she’d break the spell he’d cast over them. A blanket of contentment warmed her clear through, and she might have been dozing lightly when Damon shifted to make her more comfortable. When he stroked her hair back, she awoke to find his brown-eyed gaze filled with all the tenderness and wonder she herself was feeling.

  Celesta cleared her throat. “Perhaps Damon and Sally will seem anticlimactic if we read them now.”

  “They’ll be good for an encore.” He stroked the bridge of her nose with his lips. “The champagne’s

  got possibilities, too, you know. Have you ever felt those cool pricklies exploding on your bare stomach?”

  ‘‘Can’t say that I have,” she replied with a chuckle.

  “Me neither. But I’d like to.”

  She stroked his thick, dark hair, knowing he’d shown her only a few of the marvels in his sensual repertoire and that years from now she’d still be pleasuring him just for the joy of it.

  “I love you, Damon.” From out of nowhere the words came—the most irrevocable of phrases, and the most damning if the sentiment wasn’t returned. Celesta studied his reaction, heartened when he didn’t so much as blink.

  “And I love you, sweetheart.” He enfolded her again, hiding his doubts in the silken pillow of her hair. The young woman in his arms had restored his soul these past weeks, but there was still a void where Lucy Bates had lived. It might take months more to regain his confidence in himself as a marrying man.

  Celesta, still starry-eyed, needn’t know that, however—at least not now, while she was cradled in his embrace. He prayed she’d never suffer the agonizing degradation of a life driven awry by tainted love . . . yet the darkest recesses of his soul seemed to echo with laughter, as though it knew he would be the very one to ruin her.

  “I could use some of that champagne. How about you?” he whispered.

  She nodded, and as he unwove himself to fetch the bottle, Celesta watched his agile body. Had she been a fool to press the issue, knowing he’d been hurt by the betrayal he refused to tell her about?

  It was too late to save face, and the words could never be erased. His smile and gentle kiss as he sat down beside her suggested that Damon Frye truly cared for her. And for the moment, that was enough.

  They sat on the settee in companionable nakedness, passing the cool green bottle between them, gazing at each other in the glimmer of the single candle. The champagne went to Celesta’s head quickly, adding to her giddiness when Damon held a chocolate between his teeth, offering her half. She nipped playfully at it, leading into a kiss that tasted sweet and smeary and delightful in its spontaneity.

  Damon raised his head to look at her. When her pale green eyes caught the candlelight they shone silver, slightly unfocused. Her lips were smudged, her midnight hair hung in disarming disarray, and she was grinning like a child who’d sneaked candy to bed and was enormously pleased with herself.

  He solemnly kissed the chocolate from her mouth, running his tongue around its delicate edges and into its corners. Celesta felt soft and pliable in his arms, so willing to be molded by his whim and far too trusting. When the last traces of candy were gone from her ivory skin, he gently held her heart-shaped face between his hands. “What am I going to do with you, little girl?” he murmured, only half teasing.

  Celesta giggled. “I have a pretty good idea.”

  The huskiness of her voice reawakened his yearning for her. He’d taken her the first time out of need, but now it was desire, hot and sweet, licking at his loins. On an impulse he tipped the bottle near her shoulder and sent champagne racing down her breast in a shimmering little cascade.

  Celesta shrieked and then clapped her hand over her mouth. Her lover seemed oblivious to the noise the settee made, with its groaning springs and its claw feet grunting against the floor as he shifted to kiss the liquor from her body. “Please—I—stop!” she whispered frantically. “Justine’ll hear—”

  “She’s listening to an Edison record. When I paused on her balcony to catch my breath, she was so far removed she didn’t notice me looking in at her.” Damon resumed his seduction, her thundering pulse warning him that stronger measures were necessary if she was to succumb this time.

  Her breath caught in her throat when he suckled her. Every nerve in her body throbbed with raw hunger, yet as she slid helplessly onto the cushions beneath his insistent caress, one tiny flare kept popping up red, in the back of her mind. “Damon, we’ve got to—”

  “Relax, sweetheart,” he whispered, stroking her satiny skin. “Even if she could hear us she wouldn’t rush up here. She’ll never threaten us again, Celesta.”

  Was he hinting that he’d done more than merely peek in at Justine? Or was it the champagne making his words sound so ominous? Flat on her back now, she could do little about it, and the part of her brain that longed to be considered an irresistible femme fatale was quickly giving in to him. Damon was kneeling beside the sofa now, massaging her breasts with one hand and a very moist, thorough mouth.

  When he slid the bottle between her legs, she gasped at the cold surprise of it. Once again he was taking her on a sorcerer’s sojourn into a world of exquisite torment, and as her legs parted she writhed greedily, shamelessly, toward the butt of the bottle and the magic it was working.

  Champagne sloshed onto her stomach, stealing her breath again. Damon kissed up the prickling liquid, tickling her ruthlessly, chuckling all the while. His thumb was drawing tight circles around one nipple while his other hand slid the bottle against her with mesmerizing slowness. Yet even as his tongue delved into her navel, the internal explosions he caused didn’t mask a faint flutter of distress. Something’s wrong . . . stop this madness—sober up before it’s too late!

  He could feel her resistance waning, and her arousal spurred him on. Celesta was pure delight, vitally alive as she wriggled and moaned. Her arm fell limply across her closed eyes, and her mouth went slack to allow incoherent mumblings to tumble out. Damon desperately wanted to plunge into her, but she was so close it would be cruel to interrupt the spiraling frenzy within her. When her eyes flew open he instinctively quelled her outburst with a kiss and continued stroking her until she quaked and then stopped the bottle with her hands.

  Damon slid onto the settee, but she shoved at his chest. “Up! Let me—smoke!”

  He caught himself before he thudded unceremoniously to the floor, startled that Celesta was clambering over the top of him as though frightened for her life. She wasn’t that drunk! Her clumsiness would’ve been comical, had he not noticed her stricken expression while she hurried over to the floor grate.

  What Celesta saw when she peered down into Aunt Justine’s room knocked the words right out of her. She rushed back to their clothing, grimacing at Frye and wishing he’d read her mind like he did every time she didn’t want him to. “Fire!” she gasped. “On—fire!”

  Frowning, Frye rolled quickly to his feet and suddenly realized he did smell something other than Celesta’s smoldering passions. God Almighty, Justine was rocking and reading and listening—totally unaware that the stack of dime novels behind her had flames climbing up its rough edges.

  He rushed for his pants, hoping his footfalls would alert the old woman. “Once we get her out of there, smother the flames with blankets and bedspreads—douse them with water—”

  “All we’ll have is what’s in the washbowls,” Celesta whimpered. She tugged her nightgown over her head as she ran through the ballroom, with Damon close behind her.
Why hadn’t she heeded that inner alarm? If her aunt was hurt, it was all her fault for following her body’s wanton inclinations rather than her intuition. And if Justine escaped unharmed, she would surely know what had gone on in the alcove!

  The bedroom door was locked, and as Damon pounded on it, Celesta burst into Katherine’s room, yanking the coverlet from her bed. “Fire! Fire—wake up!” she screamed, until the little woman rolled from her mattress and toddled uncertainly into the hall.

  “Justine! For God’s sake get out of there!” Frye hollered. He envisioned the stacks of dimers that lined her floorboards, perfect food for flames that the breeze from her window would fan. He heard a weak mewling inside, and realized the poor creature might be too startled to let him in. He stepped back and rammed the door with his body, but all it got him was a pain that shot through both shoulders.

  Then Katherine was behind him, whimpering, her eyes wide as she jabbed him with a skeleton key. “She fell asleep smoking, didn’t she? It was only a matter of time!”

  Frye threw the door open and nearly trampled Justine. She was hunched over an armload of something, coughing and sputtering in the dense smoke. “Please save my phonograph!” she wailed. “Oh, dear God, what’ve I done? I don’t understand how—”

  “With your damn cigarettes, that’s how!” Katherine cried. “And if it weren’t for Damon—”

  Celesta rushed past the quibbling pair and lunged toward the nearest column of flames while Damon slammed the window shut. Following Frye’s example, she first smothered the stacks of magazines with the coverlet and then beat against them until the heat scorched her palms through the fabric.

  Damon yanked the burning curtains down and then splashed them with the washstand water. “This must’ve been smoldering for quite some time before we saw it,” he muttered. “How the hell could she not know?”