by Marina Myles
“It’s lovely to meet you.”
“It’s wonderful to see both of you.” The housekeeper continued to smile. “We received your telegraph yesterday, Monsieur Starkov. You were away too long this time.”
“I agree,” Drago said kindly. “I’d like to settle in before I show my wife around. Is our suite ready, Madame P?”
She nodded. “Follow me.”
Rose and Drago strode hand-in hand behind the stout housekeeper. The more Rose saw of the house’s astonishing interior, the more in awe of it she was. A scrolled staircase layered in silver leaf ascended to a lofty second level lined with plush carpets and brilliant frescoes of seventeenth-century France. And Rose and Drago’s suite was beyond stunning. A bed draped in periwinkle blue curtains centered the huge room, which was replete with a sitting area and a balcony that stretched over a boxwood garden.
The suite combined the taste of a sophisticated woman with a young girl’s fairy tale dream, and Rose loved it. She opened the French doors to a sharp breeze. The fresh air refreshed her soul—and gave her hope that she could chase away her grief.
“The air’s a bit cleaner than in New York, eh?” Drago came up behind her.
“Hmm . . .” she replied.
“Do you like the house, darling?”
“I adore it! However did you leave this place for that shoddy apartment in New York?”
He laughed as he encircled her waist. “You were the only thing enticing enough to lure me away from here.”
Madame Pontbriand cleared her throat as she stood in the doorway.
Drago peered at her over his shoulder. “Thank you, Madame P. That will be all.”
“Will you and Mrs. Starkov be coming down to supper?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied with a sly smile.
As soon as Madame Pontbriand shut the door, Drago swiveled Rose around for a hot kiss. The feel of his mouth over hers made her sigh and moan at the same time. Like he’d done the first night they made love, Drago actually tasted her. She melted against him and let his hands wander over her curves. Soon, the need for him to make love to her burned a trail from her stomach up to her lips. She never could resist his touch.
Drago took her face in his hands and claimed her mouth some more. Rose made herself breathe slowly, so as not to relay the sorrow she’d hidden deep inside. More than anything, she wished he could make the past month vanish like one of his stage doves.
As if he’d read her mind, he uttered, “I’m so sorry for everything, Rose.”
She clung to him, tears pricking her eyes. When he slid his tongue forward gently and intertwined it with hers, she emitted a tiny cry. Emotion sprang between them—and while he caressed her face, they fitted their bodies together with familiarity and a reignited lust.
Drago lifted Rose in his arms and laid her down on the bed. After brushing her mouth with another scintillating kiss, he explored her body through her clothes. Passion burst through her and she relaxed in his arms.
After moments of being tender, Drago showed his impatience. He yanked off her blouse and stared at her breasts through the transparent chemise. Then he tugged the straps of the chemise down over her shoulders. And after he bunched the material under her breasts, he pushed them upward.
“Look at that,” he said as he swept the pads of his thumbs over her risen nipples. “Now that is truly erotic.”
Swiftly, he removed every scrap of Rose’s clothes. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off. His muscular chest rose and fell in quick breaths and Rose could see his shaft straining against his trousers. He proceeded to kick off his shoes and strip off his pants, releasing his engorged sex. With his lips slightly parted, he looked at her. Really looked at her.
“Have I told you you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen?” He gave her one of his infamous crooked grins before he joined her on the coverlet.
“Oh, Drago,” she murmured.
Once he’d rolled on top of her, he kissed her deeply. Rose responded by running her fingertips along his bare back. For a minute, she stared at the canopy above them. Then, finding it hard to believe that she was here in these elegant surroundings, she gave a small smile. Her breasts rubbed against Drago’s smooth chest and after he pushed her thighs apart, he slid his hand into her moisture.
“You’re already wet,” he said hoarsely.
“Yes—”
“I like that.” He kissed her neck—and when he began stroking her folds with more pressure, red-hot desire flushed through Rose. Before she knew it, he’d located her cleft. With his special touch, he petted it, then vibrated it. As a wonderful friction built at the apex of her legs, her breasts grew heavy and sensitive. He seemed to sense it. Dragging her nipple into his mouth, he played over it with the tip of his tongue. All the while he went on stimulating her with two stiffened fingers.
“You feel so good,” he bit out.
“God,” Rose cried as he caught her erect nipple between his teeth. She closed her eyes—and let the sensations of his fingers against her petals and his hot mouth suckling her breast charge her right to a pinnacle. When the throbbing subsided, she met his stare.
“Close your eyes again,” he instructed softly. “The key to magic is letting yourself experience something.”
Lifting the bulk of her breast to his mouth again, he continued to play over her nipple with his tongue . . . groaning with pleasure as he did so.
Reveling in the feel of his mouth, she grew damp again.
“Your breasts are so sensitive,” he said. “I want you to peak once more.”
Drago lapped at her tender bud, teasing and sucking it into a point until an intense heat rippled through her. Nodding, he pressed his erection against the cushion of her thigh. He gave his shaft a few pumps with his hand before he rubbed its tip against her slit. She looked down at the shiny crown of his penis.
“Spread your legs for me, Rose,” Drago’s nostrils flared. “I’m as hard as sin.”
His raw voice spawned her desire to a new high. Anxious for him to fill her, her knees fell away from one another. Her center beat in hot pulses.
“Are you ready for me?” he asked.
She nodded. He sank into her and as she grasped his muscular shoulders, he rocked his cock forward like a ship maneuvering the high seas. Rose looked up at him, astounded by his male beauty all over again. With his trim torso, sinewy waist, and hardened forearms, he seemed to be sculpted from granite. But she knew Drago was only hard on the outside. She loved him—and she wanted him to come, too.
Cupping her breasts in her own hands, she played seductively with her hardened nipples as he hovered over her. Then she shot him a seductive, doe-eyed look.
Drago glanced down at her. Lust darkened his stare before he arched his head back. “Christ, Rose. Do you know how sensual that is?”
She smiled coyly.
“If you’re willing, I want you to touch yourself.”
Slowly, she lowered her hand to her soft mound of hair. Drago was inside her so she was only able to rub the top half of his shaft. Next, she caressed her own flesh and the exposed column of his sex simultaneously. Nothing had ever felt so carnal.
“That’s my ultimate fantasy,” he murmured. “And if you touch me underneath, you’ll make me climax.”
Under his shaft? Rose wondered. Unsure, she slid her fingers beneath his sack.
“Fondle me.”
She did. Squeezing his testicles gently prompted him to grab her hips. Thrusting more fervently, he said, “Squeeze them harder.”
She was afraid she’d hurt him, but when she gripped his balls tighter, he slammed his way to an astounding climax. Perspiring and shuddering repeatedly, Drago let his weight sag on top of her.
When his breathing eventually evened, he gathered her close. “Do you know how much I love you?”
She nodded because she loved him back the very same way.
CHAPTER 22
Afternoon faded into night. Rose lay awake, li
stening to Drago’s soft snore. Since she was facing him, she was able to study him while he slept. It proved fascinating. He drew his brows together from time to time, as if he were experiencing a nightmare. But then a hint of a smile would replace his frown—telling Rose that he’d begun dreaming of something more pleasant.
As she swept a lock of hair off his forehead, she decided that she preferred him like this. Relaxed. Hair mussed. Face unshaven.
Drago was such a complex man—and only when he was at rest did he seem peaceful. While he insisted on formality and professionalism in the public eye, Rose knew him better. He’d moved beyond his humble beginnings to reach stardom. But she assumed the journey hadn’t been an easy one.
“I wish I could have known your parents—and my own,” she whispered in the darkness.
Rolling onto her back, she glanced over at the night table. As moonlight filtered through the parted curtains and a sudden breeze swatted a tree branch against the window, she eyed the bracelet of Amenhotep. The Romanian lei coin sat adjacent to it on the table.
These objects never leave my possession except when I sleep. She remembered Drago’s words and they flushed temptation through her veins. Should she pick up the coin?
Taking a peek into Drago’s past was something Rose yearned to do, but she couldn’t break his trust.
Instead of picking the coin up and prodding it for information, she lay in the shadows and listened to the gurgle of her empty stomach. She was starving. While the aroma of beef had wafted up to the suite hours ago, she and Drago had been too busy making love to go down to dinner.
Apparently, the rumbling was loud enough to wake Drago. Opening his eyes, he shot her a playful expression. “I thought I wore you out.”
She smiled. Then she folded her hands and looked up at the billowing canopy. “I’m too hungry to sleep.”
He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face. “We can’t have that. Let’s put on our robes and raid the kitchen.”
“Can we?” she asked in astonishment.
“It’s our house, darling. We can do whatever we like.”
Cheeks flushed, she left the bed and pulled on a dressing robe. Meanwhile, Drago yanked on a sapphire blue robe. As he tugged her out the door and down the stairs, she noticed that the house sat quiet amid shadows that seemed desperate to speak.
“After we eat, remind me to show you something,” Drago whispered.
They entered a spacious kitchen and Rose eyed an old stove, a hanging pot rack, and a large servants’ table. Drago extracted food from the icebox and balanced it in one hand.
While he and Rose sat by the empty stone hearth and she feasted on cold roast beef, grapes, cheese, and wine, he snuggled close to her. He even fed her a few grapes and shared the last of the delicious wine.
“That was scrumptious,” she said in a whisper. “Shall we go back to bed now?”
“There’s something I want to show you, remember?”
“What is it?”
Drago looked at her through the shadows. “First of all, let me inform you that this château is haunted.”
“Haunted?” The thought raised her neck hair.
“Yes. The Viscount who owned this house originally, Jean-Daniel Girard, died a mysterious death. Some claim it was murder. Some say it was suicide.”
“His ghost haunts these halls?”
He nodded. “Numerous people have seen it. The chambermaids, the groundskeeper. Even Madame P. had a run-in with this ghost.”
“Have you seen it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it an angry spirit?” He’d piqued her curiosity.
Drago led her into the main drawing room. After he illuminated a gas lamp, he guided her to a wall of portraits.
“Girard’s apparition didn’t seem angry to me,” he said. “It seemed more morose than anything.”
Goosebumps prickled Rose’s arm as they stopped in front of an enormous painting. “The story goes that the viscount was a notorious bachelor,” Drago continued, “a man who stole women’s hearts without a glance back. That is, until he met her.”
Rose was about to ask who “her” was, when Drago raised his lamp. Its beam shone upward and shed light on the massive gilded portrait before them. The figure in the painting had been created to nearly human scale, and he was dashing. In fact, the nobleman appeared so life-like that Rose half expected him to step out of the painting and converse with her. Tall and muscular, Jean-David Girard wore a white, curled wig and early eighteenth-century clothing. But beneath all the frivolous period attire, she could see his vivid aquamarine eyes and angular face.
Despite his good looks, Rose sensed that agony lived behind his physical features. “Who is the woman you mentioned? Girard’s true love?” she asked.
Drago replied grimly, “She was a servant and amid a scandal of the aristocracy, she left him.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“I just know that this woman was a scullery maid in his castle. This castle. And that their love affair was an outrage.”
Rose laced her fingers around Drago’s arm. “That’s such a sad tale. People should be able to be together—regardless of their social standing.”
He nodded solemnly.
Still looking at the portrait, she said, “Those who die under tragic circumstances manifest themselves as ghosts. In their ghostly form, they can haunt a place forever . . . without crossing over to the other side.”
Drago slid her a sideways glance. “How do you know so much about specters?”
Rose snapped out of her glazed state. “I’ve always been interested in the supernatural.”
“Well,” he said lightly, “that’s sufficient warning about our resident spirit. In case you spot the handsome Monsieur Jean-Daniel, you’ll be prepared.”
She smiled. “Thank you for the history lesson.”
As they made their way upstairs, Rose caught sight of a door hanging open on the second level. “Where do those steps lead?”
“To more bedrooms,” Drago replied. “Oh, and to a sewing room. It contains one of those old-fashioned spinning wheels.”
“Really?” she said excitedly. “Can you show me?”
“All right.” Drago led the way. The light of his gas lamp stretched around the stone walls and aided their journey up the winding steps.
“In here,” he said.
Rose stepped into a tiny room. In the corner sat the spinning wheel. Moonlight shone on the tip of its spindle. In contrast to its centuries-old surroundings, the object seemed strangely alive.
“How long has this been here?” Rose queried.
“It was here when I bought the house.”
“Can you believe people had to make yarn back then?”
“Thank God they had servants.”
Rose chuckled as she ran her hand over the waist-high object.
“Be careful of the spindle,” Drago warned. “It’s sharp.”
She stepped back.
“I just had a thought,” he said. “Maybe this spinning wheel could be part of an amazing magic trick.”
“What kind of trick?”
“If I hypnotized someone and commanded them to touch the spindle, they’d do it in a dreamlike state—even though consciously they would never put their finger on something sharp. The action would convince people that I’m a viable magician with the ability to spellbind.”
“I suppose it would,” she said.
“I’m always thinking of ways to redeem myself.”
“Don’t worry. You will.”
“Never mind that.” He cocked one eyebrow. “Let’s go back to bed so I can ravage you once again.”
The next morning, a pair of songbirds chirped outside Drago and Rose’s suite. After the birds’ insistent tweeting urged Rose out of bed, she dressed in an off-white skirt, Beatrix blouse, and half boots. Scurrying downstairs, she located the bright-eyed housekeeper in the foyer.
“Good morning, Madame Starkov.”
&nb
sp; “Good morning,” Rose greeted.
Madame P. smiled. “It’s an unseasonable warm day.”
“How nice.”
The housekeeper paused. “It seems we had mice in the kitchen last night. Mice large enough to pull the remnants of dinner from the icebox.”
“I’m sorry if we left a mess.”
“I’m only teasing.” The kindly woman’s smile broadened. “Are you hungry for breakfast?”
“I am. Has my husband already eaten?”
Madame P. shook her head. “He’s waiting for you in the gardens.”
Claiming that she could find her own way, Rose thanked the woman and meandered outside. She descended a small slope to the geometrically-designed grounds. Bordered by a fruit orchard and a vineyard that Rose was sure would be lovely in spring, the boxwood gardens were breathtaking. Filled with expertly clipped cypress trees from Italy, and beautifully carved fountains, they beckoned to Rose.
Beyond the gardens, she spotted Drago seated under a shaded pavilion. She passed a deep pond littered with water lilies in order to reach him. He stood and planted a kiss on her cheek.
As Rose sat, she gazed at the display of food covering the glass table. Mounds of muffins, plates of scrambled eggs, and platters of potatoes were waiting patiently for her to dig into.
“Is this enough food?” Drago draped a napkin across her lap.
“More than enough! I’ll gain a hundred pounds and become horribly spoiled if I stay here too long.” She laughed.
“I’ll still love you,” he joked back.
A splashing fountain broke the silence as Rose ate. Meanwhile, Drago sat back and took in the stunning view. She watched him between bites. He looked extremely tired, as if he hadn’t slept at all in these tranquil surroundings.
Maybe he was still more torn up about his career plummeting than he was letting on.
Stuffed, Rose leaned back in her chair. “I want to ask you something.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve never seen you consume one morsel of food.”
Drago pulled on his starched collar, his face flushed. “It’s a personal quirk of mine.”
“What is?”