Risking the World

by Dorian Paul

  "Wait." He sought a way to make his intentions clear without forcing the issue. "You've managed to get flour on your nose."

  "Did I?"

  He bent near her and put his hand over hers on the doorknob. "Not really." He kissed her and used his body to gently back her inside the dark room.

  She let his lips linger on hers before she whispered, "I don't think this a good idea."

  "It is an excellent idea."

  "I'm not your type, and I don't want to get hurt."

  He had never known her type to exist before they met and, having found her now, could not imagine ever hurting her. "Turn your mind off, and allow me to love you."

  He fingered her lips until she parted them and his tongue slipped inside her mouth, where sweetness from the pecan pie filling she tasted earlier brought him a delicious erection. He kissed her lips until they were swollen, and kissed them again until her breaths became tiny gasps and she pulled his shirttail from his pants. Struggling under the exquisite torture of her hands flitting over his nipples, desperate to hold out long enough to give her satisfaction, he removed her hands from his chest and kissed her palms before slipping her sweater over her head and freeing her lovely breasts. Standing skin to skin now felt so right and he rubbed his chest against her nipples while she swayed in time. She tickled his neck with her breaths and twirled his hair in her fingers, while he loosened the barrette that imprisoned her hair and ran his hands through its silken waves.

  Then he slid her slacks and panties off. The perfume of her sex intoxicated him. He filled her with two fingers, and thrilled when she spread her long legs into a stance that gave him free access. Despite the darkness he saw pleasure wreathed her face, reflecting the craving he felt, and their gazes locked as they managed for a moment to feast on one another. When he backed away to loosen his belt and drop his pants, she radiated the heat of desire.

  Their bodies crushed together and she wrapped his waist with her legs. He slammed inside her, and her back smacked against the wall to his rhythm while she screamed her release with his name as they came, together, in a frenzied passion distinct from any coupling he had known before.

  He carried her to the bed, where they mated again with even greater force, proving once more how different tonight's lovemaking was from the solace each sought the night of Sandra's death, and showing they shared a primal need for one another – one he knew had become basic to his life, and he hoped, to hers.

  When did she become his obsession? He should've known it was happening since she was rarely far from his thoughts. When she was in the thrall of passion he knew her desire for him was the equal of his. But good sex alone would not satisfy a woman like Claire Ashe for the long-term. Perhaps she was the more honest of the two when she admitted her fear of being hurt. What would he do if she left him behind after the Tivaz TB crisis passed? And if she stayed, was he willing to admit to himself, and to her, that he wanted her not simply as a lover, but that he wanted a family with her.

  ***

  She woke to the sound of the shower and stretched under the blankets, shockingly sore from last night's primitive behavior. Yet the memories were gratifying, and when he came from the bath with a towel snugging his waist and leaned over for an extended kiss, her body sang at his touch. He was the first to break away.

  "I've an early meeting. Otherwise, nothing short of fire could drag me from your bed. Don't forget drinks at seven, my lovely. And after that . . ."

  He winked at her and she loved the flirt, even if it was no more than an idle show from a practiced lover. Why not enjoy the fleeting thrill of being bedded by a Tiger? Soon enough she'd deal with the pain, and when that time came she'd survive losing David Ruskin just as she had survived her earlier losses.

  Meanwhile, newfound energy made her eager to get to the lab and tackle the prep work for Don's arrival. Once there she told everyone they were to put aside what they were working on today, change hats, and for one day become a member of the theoretical team. Their remit – to come up with as many new ideas as possible to present to Don when he arrived tomorrow to take command.

  So enthusiastic was her team's response that she barely managed to get to Sherborne House by six, where she found Maggie setting the grand dining room table with the spectacular china she'd chosen the night David came home from Morocco. Touched that Maggie chose these beautiful antique dishes for her American Thanksgiving, she carefully lifted one of the plates.

  "This here's the Crest china," Maggie said.

  Crest china? She turned it over to check the maker.

  "You won't find what you're looking for, luv. It's one of a kind."

  "I can see it's very special."

  "Certainly is. Goes way, way back. The Crest shows off the Sherborne coat of arms. Only comes out for family holidays."

  She couldn't have known, yet how audacious he must have thought her to use it that night. "Don't use it, Maggie, it's too valuable. There are plenty of other dishes to choose from."

  Maggie tsked. "Davvy especially asked for it."

  He did?

  "And Miss Elizabeth sent over a box of decorations for the table. Said you'd know what to do with them. And there's a little something from her I hung up in your dressing room."

  Given the hour, she should go upstairs and change right away, but she couldn't resist sneaking a peek inside the box on the sideboard. There she found a cornucopia filled with gourds and small pumpkins, decorative leaves, votive candles, and four small vases with miniature mums. But the real jackpot was pint-sized Pilgrims and Indians. The Pilgrims were complete down to buckles on tiny boots and belts made from zipper heads. The Indians wore small headdresses cut from boa feathers. How like Elizabeth to want to spruce up the table with little touches like these hand-made decorations, and she experimented with several table displays until she found the perfect one.

  Then she raced upstairs and fell in love with Elizabeth's other gift. The burnt orange brocade dress complimented her hair, and she clutched it in front of the cheval mirror. The sleeves ended just below the elbow to hide her bruised arm. Elizabeth had thought of everything, even a deep center cut that would reveal cleavage when she moved. She hoped David would notice, and girlish anticipation sent butterflies to her stomach.

  The absurdity of her excitement over a man, a dress, and a dinner wasn't lost on her. She'd never felt like this, not on her first date with Ben, and not even after her thesis defense when Don offered her a job in his lab. It was worse than ridiculous. But she told herself it was a natural response to the pressures of the last months and went downstairs to help Maggie. She passed the dining room table, set with the cheery tokens of Elizabeth's friendship, and touched the shiny formal plates of David's family before entering the kitchen where the nostalgic pies from her childhood were set out on the counter.

  She welcomed the smells of Thanksgiving – roast turkey, squash, even Brussels sprouts – and vowed to set aside all thoughts of Tivaz TB tonight so she might celebrate the gift of this holiday. One evening was all she asked for, a few hours when she might sample the essence of safety, friends, and hope.

  Chapter 29

  At Elizabeth's flat in Charles Street fur was flying. Leaving her shop so late left little time yet she dawdled in the shower's hot spray. How long had it been since she encountered a man like Bobby Keane? While his profession made her uneasy, he was charming, unmarried, and good-looking. A night of flirtation was safe enough. For goodness sakes, he lived in another country. No harm could come of it. And if he were as attentive tonight as during their room service dinner in Paris, it would be a huge boost to her ego. Men did not habitually flock to her door.

  She luxuriated in thoughts of wowing Bobby as she smoothed vanilla body lotion all over, and fluffed her short hair, pleased the costly cut delivered on speed when it came to styling. Then she slipped into the lapis blue cocktail suit, whose low-cut peplum jacket fastened with a series of tiny pearl buttons. She adored the soft fall of silk over the matching
pencil slim short skirt, and how the suit fit her proportions exactly, creating a longish line. Still, three-inch heels would add a little extra, and in an instant she found the prize. Those matching shoes were a real find.

  She took a pashmina shawl and decided to hail a taxi for the short ride to Sherborne House. A narrow skirt did not lend itself to a rapid walk. Best make a proper entrance for a date with a lady killer. Oh dear, what a poor choice of words for a man who was, in fact, a real killer. She shrugged off her reservations once more, set the alarm system David had insisted on last year, and left her flat.

  ***

  Bobby didn't celebrate holidays as a rule. He had no hankering to be with Mom and Johnny any more than necessary, but he was intrigued by Elizabeth's invitation to Thanksgiving dinner at Sherborne House. Not that he believed for an instant that the idea was David's. Elizabeth was behind this get together, and he sure looked forward to seeing her again, though spending the evening with David wasn't high on his list. Their latest contacts had been short and professional, but not real friendly. Maybe he was reading too much into it . . . or just feeling guilty about what he said to James about David.

  He splashed his face with hotel aftershave, grabbed his suit coat, and glanced into the bar on his way out. Marta waved, ever hopeful. He'd run a background check on her and what you saw was what you got, an honest working girl, but as a matter of habit he cased the bar, the lobby, and the street outside for the suspicious jogger from his last trip. Nothing doing, but it paid to be alert. Since Sherborne House was close he walked, careful to take a route that doubled back more than once to look for tails and get a feel for David's new neighborhood. He'd only ever been to his pal's old apartment, an uncluttered bachelor pad kind of like his own house in Virginia. Well, maybe not exactly. David's place had high ceilings, big windows, thick moldings and wood floors while Bobby lived in a carpeted high-rise modern condo with picture windows. Yeah, the architecture wasn't what their places had in common; it was the fact neither felt like a home.

  He 'made' the two security guards outside Sherborne House, the one he wasn't supposed to see as well as the one who checked his ID. That guy let him through a gate set in a finely tooled wrought iron fence, and he walked up to a solid wooden door with intricate carving and etched glass. Impressive. He knew David's father was some sort of British aristocrat, but only now did David's privileged birth hit him. Hell, he didn't even know who his old man was. He straightened his tie even though he felt more like loosening it, and rang the bell. He half-expected a butler in a tux. Instead, somebody's grandma in an apron opened the door, and took him into a giant hall where his dress shoes from some Mall store clicked on the marble floor. The whole place screamed old money. He took a deep breath.

  "Nice digs, pal," he joked when David stepped out of a nearby room.

  David nodded without comment, and he wondered again how much James told David about their conversation. "Elizabeth here yet?"

  "She has yet to arrive. Claire will be in shortly." He followed David into a classy living room filled with a ton of antique furniture. "May I get you a Manhattan?"

  "Since when do you have the fixin's for my favorite drink?"

  "Maggie keeps the bar fully stocked," David replied, his icy politeness a far cry from that of his best friend.

  It was gonna be a long night if Elizabeth didn't show up soon, and the trip he was taking with David tomorrow would be even longer if this sort of thing kept up. Maybe he made a mistake letting David be in charge of their trip to the continent and Morocco. A rustle intruded on his thoughts and Claire walked in looking like a million bucks. Not that you couldn't see she had the potential all along, but tonight she didn't have that brainy scientist look all over her face. She crossed the room as if to shake his hand, but David shortstopped her.

  "Claire, you look lovely," David said and moved like he was about to kiss her, although he caught himself and only winked. She beamed and her body tilted toward his.

  They gotta be lovers. And he hasn't said jack shit about it to me.

  "Bobby's having a Manhattan, I'm having a Martini. What shall I get you?"

  She paused as if slightly baffled. Must not be a drinker. Then she picked a Martini.

  That seals the deal. Definitely lovers.

  David made drinks. He made small talk with Claire, steering clear of why they were here instead of the States for turkey day, and counted the number of times she glanced at David and smiled in a sweet, shy sort of way. Nine. When Claire left the room to get more ice he gave his friend one last chance to fess up. "Wow, she's a real looker, pal."

  David sort of scowled but said nada. Where was Elizabeth, anyway?

  At last the doorbell rang and she made a grand entrance. Kisses and smiles to David and to Claire, who thanked her profusely for something, and at last she turned her charm on him. "Mr. Bobby Keane. Greetings and salutations on this, your day of Thanksgiving for deliverance to a land free from the yoke of my countrymen."

  "That's one way of putting it, honey." He took her outstretched hand and kissed it. Might as well get with the program.

  David came up beside her protectively. What, did he think Bobby wasn't good enough for his cousin? "Elizabeth, what shall I get you? I have a nice Chablis."

  She studied his cocktail. "What are you drinking, Bobby? It matches my hair."

  "Killer Manhattan, drink at your own risk."

  "A killer Manhattan, David."

  Lizzie looked his way and licked her lips. All right. His friend could give him the cold shoulder all night long. What the hell did he care? Maybe David wouldn't be the only one to get lucky tonight. And if Lizzie was willing, who was he to say no? She might be David's cousin and Jeremy's sister, but the woman sure knew her own mind.

  ***

  Elizabeth was well aware Aunt Dorothy hadn't taken to her color suggestions in the last redecorating, but when David followed Claire to the kitchen and left her alone with Bobby, the drawing room seemed cozier than she remembered, somehow warmer. She took a sip of her Manhattan. "Delicious."

  "Yep, but this Manhattan can't beat your outfit. You design that?"

  A blaze of pleasure burned through her. Few men of her acquaintance, including her ex-husband, would ask the question in a manner that showed true interest in her talents. "Since you ask, I'd like to draw special attention to my shoes."

  She arched one foot in Bobby's direction, careful to aim it so calf and thigh showed to advantage, and regaled him with the tale of how sale shoes turned into the design for her lapis-colored evening suit. Tears of real laughter swelled in the corners of his baby blue eyes by the time she finished. So far so good, especially when David led them into the dining room and Bobby immediately noticed her Pilgrims and Indians. "Hey, where'd you guys get these? I'd say Harrods, but they're too American."

  "They're Elizabeth's creations," Claire volunteered.

  She curtsied before sitting and everyone laughed. But especially Bobby, who gave her thumbs up and continued to bowl her over throughout the meal by being complimentary, funny, and full of the brash American optimism that made her feel anything was possible. And what a body. Muscles bulged beneath his suit whenever he passed a serving dish. He wore clothes well, but he was made to be naked and tonight her imagination ran most especially to the naked part as she dropped all reservations and simply delighted in this man who happened to share her dead brother's profession.

  She wished to seize the day, Carpe Diem, as Claire obviously had done with David. The two of them painted a picture of domestic harmony, and she smiled to think the cousin who assisted Claire in serving the meal was the same boy who egged her on to help him light every Thorn Hall fireplace so he might observe smoke pouring from twenty-four chimneys at once. Why, he even volunteered to help Claire organize coffee and dessert, leaving her to amuse Bobby in the drawing room. No need to twist her arm. She was prepared to play with fire, and see if her happiness might match Claire and David's.

  "How shall I entertain s
omeone from the colonies?" she asked. "Test your knowledge of our history?"

  "No, tell me what you know about the States, Lizzie. Been there much?"

  "I know the East Coast a bit. The Earl once had a seaside cottage in Maine for a summer when he was considering some sort of lobstering investment."

  "The Earl?"

  "My father."

  "You call your father the Earl?" A curious quality infused his voice, as though he were rapidly reclassifying information he'd acquired about her so far this evening, and she found it difficult to judge if her offhand remark about the Earl went in the plus or minus column.

  "If you ever meet him you'll see he fits the name by birth and temperament."

  He shrugged and his eyes narrowed. A moment passed before he said, "Actually, I've met your Dad. Had lunch with him and David here in London, around the time David came down from Forbes Castle."

  He must've known Jeremy then. Why else would the Earl, a complete recluse since his only son's death, have lunched with Bobby?

  "Yep, I was on that mission, too. With David and your brother. Figured I might as well say so."

  She wished he hadn't, because now she knew with certainty he was the American who carried her dead brother and injured cousin out of Kurdistan.

  "Look at me, Lizzie."

  She couldn't. All she could think was she chose to play with fire and now she was getting scorched. She deserved it. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  "Saying I'm sorry for your loss is kind of lame, but I am. Jeremy was a good kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes life sucks."

  Too true, and she most certainly did not want to like someone who was with Jeremy and David that last time. And, even if she liked him, how could she bear to be near a constant reminder of the tragedy that shook her family?

  "Lizzie, your Dad wanted to know all the details."

  "He never mentioned a word to us."