“Are you blushing?” she asked in amazement.
“Absolutely not,” he scoffed. “It’s just…warm in here.”
It was warm, she’d give him that.
But the steam in the room had nothing to do with the temperature.
“I kissed you,” she reminded him as she tucked a loose tendril behind her ear. Kincaid had inadvertently loosened several pins during their embrace, and the heavy mass was all but undone. A shake of her head, and it would come tumbling down in a thick spill of auburn curls. “If any blame is to be assigned, I fully accept all of it.” She smiled engagingly. “I can apologize to you, if you’d like. I’ve never initiated a kiss. You’re my first.”
“Don’t tell me that,” he muttered, his expression pained as he yanked a hand through his hair.
“Tell you what?” she asked. “That you’re the first man I’ve—”
“This is not a conversation we are having,” he interrupted.
Her brows gathered. “Why not?”
“Because this,”—he gestured between them—“will not happen again.”
“Won’t it?”
“No,” he said emphatically.
She sighed. “That’s a pity, as I’ve already put it on your schedule.” Lifting her arm, she mimed writing in the air with a pen. “Ravish Miss Thorncroft at five o’clock.”
Kincaid’s mouth twitched.
Joanna stared, stunned at what she was seeing.
Was that—was that an actual smile?
A trick of the light, she decided when he scowled and stalked across the room to pour himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the windowsill. After quenching his thirst, he turned to face her. A storm cloud on the brink of releasing a torrent of rain and booming thunder would have appeared less ominous.
“Miss Thorncroft—”
“Mr. Kincaid,” she quipped.
“This is not a joke.”
“I never said it was.” Kneeling, she began to gather the books they’d knocked down during their moment of passion. As good a way as any to describe what had occurred between them, she supposed. And no matter what Kincaid claimed to the contrary, it was going to happen again.
Sooner rather than later, if she had anything to say about it.
“Why don’t you like me?” Clutching a dictionary to her chest, she sat on her haunches amidst a pool of skirts. “I understand I can be somewhat vexing at times—”
“Somewhat vexing?” he said incredulously.
“But we’ve never argued or spoken unkindly to each other. Why, then, do I find myself the constant recipient of so much…” She searched for the right word. “Antagonism?”
“Miss Thorncroft, all we do is argue,” he said, leaning back against his desk.
“That’s not true,” she protested.
He lifted a brow. “We’re literally arguing right now.”
“You’re trying to change the subject.”
“No, I am trying to avoid the conversation altogether.”
She rested her chin on the spine of the dictionary. “Why?”
“Because it’s not one we should be having.”
“Why?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Because you are my employee, and my client, and our relationship is already complicated enough. I do not dislike you, Miss Thorncroft. Neither do I like you. I…I feel nothing towards you. As it should be.” He crossed his arms. “Which is why these discussions of an intimate nature serve absolutely no purpose.”
Joanna slowly rose to her feet as a spark of anger ignited within her belly. Despite their short acquaintance, she’d already come to several conclusions in regards to Kincaid’s character. She knew he was cold. Occasionally even callous. But he was also compassionate. Dedicated Protective.
One thing she’d never suspected him of being?
A liar.
“Here.” Marching up to him, she more or less threw the dictionary at his chest.
He caught it with a grunt. “What the devil is this for?”
“So you can look up the definition of the word hypocrite!” She whirled around, prepared to dash out in a huff of righteous indignation—if she were on stage, surely it would be an exit worthy of a standing ovation—but Kincaid spoiled her theatrical debut when he grabbed her around the waist and spun her towards him.
Their bodies collided.
Their eyes flashed.
First with warning…
…and then in recognition of the inevitable.
“Damn you,” Kincaid growled as he pushed his fingers into her hair and tilted her head back. Free of its coiffure, her wild mane tumbled over his hands in a waterfall of red silk. He cursed again while her breath quickened in anticipation. “I don’t want this.”
“Hypocrite,” she whispered.
He kissed her.
No, Joanna registered with a small stirring of alarm as he nipped her bottom lip with his teeth and then soothed the bite with his tongue.
Kincaid wasn’t kissing her. He was possessing her. With a fierce, nearly carnal hunger that left her gasping for air when he wrenched free of her lips, cleared his desk of papers with a violent sweep of his arm, and sat her in the middle of it.
She clung to his neck as he stepped between her legs, anchored his arms on either side of her trembling body, and proceeded to devour her mouth like a man starved. He took her lips as though they belonged to him, as though she belonged to him and, for once in her life, Joanna was more than happy to relinquish control.
Her head rolled limply to the side when he kissed her neck. He suckled at the deliciously sensitive juncture between her throat and collarbone, and she gasped when he went even lower, tugging her bodice down with one hand while the other cupped the underside of her breast…and raised its dusky center to his mouth.
Lust. Passion. Arousal.
Joanna had not understood their true meaning before this. Before she found herself sprawled on a man’s desk, her thighs wantonly splayed apart and her pupils dilated with desire, while a man teased her nipple through her cotton undergarments.
With his tongue.
She whimpered when Kincaid moved to her other breast; a tiny, mewling sound that only seemed to inflame his ardor. He kissed his way down her ribcage, peeling her gown off as he went. It bunched at her wrists and her waist, and his snarl of frustration made her smile.
“How do you get this bloody thing off?” he demanded, tugging at her corset.
Joanna shook her head regretfully. “I wish I knew.”
He took off his spectacles and tossed them carelessly on the desk. They skidded across and dropped to the floor, but he didn’t even seem to notice. He was too intent of ridding her of anything that separated his lips from her flesh, and she jumped when he grabbed her corset by its seams and quite simply ripped it apart.
The boning had left faint red lines in a vertical row around her torso. Anger darkened Kincaid’s countenance when he saw the marks the corset had left. She quivered when he traced them first with his fingertips and then with his mouth, following a line all the way down to the jut of her hipbone.
“Never wear one of those again,” he said, glaring at the torn corset which now laid in a sad crumple at her feet. “Such beauty doesn’t deserve to be contained.”
“All right.” Resisting the primitive urge to cover herself, she lifted her chin instead, bravely exposing every inch of her naked bosom to Kincaid’s gaze as he turned his head. “I won’t.”
The detective swallowed.
Audibly.
“Beauty,” he repeated, his voice little more than a rasp.
Joanna closed her eyes and arched her spine away from the desk when he cupped her breasts, his thumbs circling round her nipples until they were hard and aching and all but begging to be licked.
Kincaid obliged, leisurely suckling one swollen peak and then the other. Soon, her entire body was as taut as a bowstring and she feared she might explode. There was a…a tension rising within her. Unlike anything
she’d ever encountered before. The tension only increased when his hand slipped beneath her skirts and found the inside of her leg.
Her drawers were loosely fitted, allowing more than enough room for his fingers to glide up to the juncture of her thighs. He paused just shy of touching the curls that nestled there and met her gaze. His amber eyes gleamed with a wolfish intensity, and she understood the question he was asking before he could form the sentence.
“Yes,” she whimpered, shamelessly rubbing herself against the hand beneath her dress when he rolled her nipple between his thumb and finger. “Oh, yes.”
He kissed her.
Stroking her above the waist and below, he kissed her.
Slowly at first, so slowly she nearly stomped her foot in frustration, and then the tempo increased as his tongue stole boldly between her lips and his finger stroked the small nub buried between her slick folds from which all of that delicious tension was radiating.
Faster, and faster, and faster he pleasured her. She writhed on the desk, her hips instinctively rising to meet his hand as she returned his kiss with a desperate enthusiasm.
Almost, she wanted to beg. Almost.
She didn’t understand what she was reaching towards, only that Kincaid was bringing her closer and closer to it with every wicked flick of his wrist. Her nails streaked up and over his shoulders, unconsciously urging him on as she rode his hand with all the wild abandon of some dockside hussy.
Then, a final stroke.
The peak.
A guttural noise rose from the depths of Kincaid’s throat as she clamped her thighs around his hand and cried out. Her head fell back, her arms went limp. If it was possible, she could have sworn her heart stopped as well. At the very least, it stuttered.
And why wouldn’t it? She’d just touched lightning. Had been touched by lightning. Surely that was the only comparable explanation of what had occurred. Of what Kincaid had done to her. Of what he’d done for her. He had taken passion, wrapped it in a pretty box, added a bow, and given it to her. A gift she hadn’t expected, but one which she was exceedingly pleased to have received.
Much more practical than flowers and sweet candies.
Her eyes were still squeezed shut. She opened them to see Kincaid was still hovering above her. His gaze was unreadable, his nostrils flared. A thin sheen of perspiration gleamed high on his brow and his hair was in disarray. Reaching out, she tucked a piece behind his ear. For an instant, he leaned into her embrace. For an instant, she held the weight of his heart in the palm of her hand. Then he stiffened, and pulled back.
“Miss Thorncroft—”
“I am sitting on your desk half-naked with my skirts above my knees,” she interrupted. “Surely we can dispel with the formalities.”
Other women in her position may have felt self-conscious. Embarrassed. Perhaps even a little ashamed. But Joanna did not find any shame in what she’d done with Kincaid. Quite the opposite, in fact.
She felt liberated.
She felt empowered.
She also felt a slight chill.
“Would you mind?” she asked, turning her back towards Kincaid so that he could assist in helping her redress. There was no saving the corset, but after a few tugs and adjusting a button here and there, she managed without it. Her hair was another matter. Tangled beyond repair, the best she could manage was shoving it behind her shoulders.
“I’ll make certain to wear my hat when I leave.” Her lips, swollen from his kisses, twitched at the corners. “Wouldn’t want the neighbors gossiping if they saw the state of my coiffure.”
His mouth flattened. “Miss Thorncroft—”
“Joanna,” she said. “Call me Joanna.”
Something flickered in the depths of his amber gaze. “That would be unprofessional.”
She snorted. She couldn’t help it. “If using my Christian name is unprofessional, what would you call…well…”—she pointed at the desk—“that?”
“A mistake,” he said flatly.
Now it was Joanna who stiffened. “A mistake?” she repeated. “Kissing me was a mistake?”
He grimaced. “That’s not what I…that’s not what I meant.”
“By all means, please enlighten me, then.” Kneeling, she began to collect the papers that had been knocked to the floor. Her fingers brushed against the ear loop of his spectacles. Wordlessly, she picked them up and extended her arm above her head.
“Thank you.” Kincaid took the spectacles. He was quiet for a few seconds before he said, “I’m afraid this isn’t the first time I’ve had…feelings for a client.”
“You’ve feelings for me?” Jumping on his choice of words like a cat on a poor, unsuspecting mouse, Joanna gathered the stack of papers and leapt to her feet. “What sort of feelings?” she asked as her pulse fluttered.
This was what she’d been waiting for. Kincaid to actually express his emotions instead of concealing them behind that damned stone wall. Who knew all it would take was a bit of heavy fondling? Heavens, had she known that she might have been tempted to kiss him the first day she walked into his office! It certainly would have saved them both some time, and she quivered when she thought of all the climaxes—was that the right word for it? She thought that was the right word for it—she could have had between then and now.
Unfortunately, her newfound hope quickly withered like a flower denied rain when she saw the expression upon Kincaid’s countenance.
“You’re a truly lovely woman, Miss Thorncroft,” he began.
“Oh, dear,” she mumbled. Nothing, in the history of all humankind, had ever gone well after a sentence began with “you’re a truly lovely woman”.
“But—”
“Here it comes,” she sighed.
“I would kindly ask you to forget this ever happened.”
Joanna stared blankly at him. “You want me to forget you had your hand on my—”
“Yes,” he said hastily. “Yes, that’s precisely what I want you to do.”
“I was going to say shoulder.”
His eyebrow raised. “Of course. Because Americans are known for their propriety.”
A valid point.
Biting on the inside of her cheek, she placed the papers on his desk, then pivoted to face him, her gaze (and her heart) troubled. “I must be honest. I don’t know if I can forget.”
“You must try, or else…”
“Or else?” she said softly.
“Or else I would advise you to find another private investigator, Miss Thorncroft.”
He wouldn’t dare.
Except he would, and they both knew it.
“You can still call me Joanna,” she offered. “If you’d like.”
His jaw clenched. “I don’t believe that would be wise, Miss Thorncroft.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. It was just a name. Except it wasn’t.
And they both knew it.
Her name was a barrier. One of the last that stood between them and…well, more of what had happened on the desk.
Joanna would have liked more.
She would have liked more very much.
But it was clear that while Kincaid had enjoyed himself (he had enjoyed himself, hadn’t he?), there was no interest in a repeat performance.
“All right,” she conceded. “I shall endeavor to do as you’ve requested and forget this ever happened. Except…why can’t we enjoy each other’s company? We are both adults.”
Heat flared in his gaze. “Are you asking for an affair, Miss Thorncroft?”
“No.” Maybe. Her hands gathered in the folds of her skirts. She tucked her thumbs in, nail digging ever-so-slightly into her the soft flesh of her palms. “Unless you wanted—”
“I do not,” he said shortly.
Well, then.
That was blunt, wasn’t it?
Except it was an answer, not a reason. And surely, surely there had to be a reason. Because they did enjoy each other’s company. And they were both adults. And…why not? She wasn’
t married. Neither was Kincaid. He also didn’t have a mistress, at least one that she knew about. From what she’d witnessed thus far, the detective was wedded to his work. Everything else came secondary, which was to be expected, she assumed, given the long hours his line of employment required. But surely his job did not exclude him from all pleasures.
Joanna knew it was wicked of her to want what she did.
But she also refused to believe it was wrong.
“I have a private meeting in half an hour.” Kincaid gathered her hat and gloves. A not-terribly-subtle hint that it was time for her to leave. He ushered her to the door but she balked at the threshold, refusing to be dismissed so easily as that.
“Why?” Her lashes swept across the tops of her cheeks as she glanced down, then back up, her brow creased in confusion. “Is it me? Have I done something?”
“You’re my client,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“And?” she persisted.
“And only a fool steps back into the fire after they’ve already been burned. Good day, Miss Thorncroft.” Without further explanation, he shoved her into the foyer, closed the door…and locked it.
*
“Go away,” Kincaid growled when he felt a nudge against his legs. “I’m not speaking to you.”
Baring his tiny, white fangs, James gave a loud hiss before he leapt onto a chair and swatted at his master’s hand.
“Bloody hell!” Kincaid swore when he felt a sharp stab of pain and saw four bright red claw marks across his knuckles. “What the devil was that for?”
The cat’s tail swished through the air.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
James hissed again.
“It’s not as if I planned for this to happen.” Scowling, Kincaid began to pick up the books that were scattered across the floor. “I did the only thing I could do,” he muttered, more to himself than to the cat, never mind that there didn’t really need to be a distinction because it was a cat.
From the chair came the sound of a sniff that could only be described as disdainful.
Kincaid glared at James over his shoulder. “What? You think I should have an affair with her, don’t you? An affair with an American. Bollocks on that.” He slammed two books together. “It’d be like standing naked in the middle of a thunderstorm with an iron rod while I waited for lightning to strike me down.”
Bewitched by the Bluestocking Page 14