He blinked and the sexual look was gone, replaced by one of measuring consideration.
She could only hope that he’d hire her as a decorator and leave the rest alone, so she kept her expression professional as she reached into a pocket for her business cards that showed room models. Not taking her eyes from him, she withdrew a card and handed it to him.
It was pink. Far too feminine for him. “Wait,” she said, “I gave you the wrong business card.”
He ignored her and let it sit on his palm. Mitchella suppressed another quiver at the contrast between the pink “marbled” card and his calloused, tanned palm.
He stared at the card, then back at her, a slow smile moving over his face. “It takes a certain kind of woman to carry off pink”—his glance flicked down her again—“and a green silkeen onesuit. I think you’re just what I’m looking for.”
She tired of playing games. “I’m only interested in restoring your home, GrandLord.”
Now he raised sandy brows. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
He watched the rise and fall of her bosom with appreciation. “Drina recommends you,” he said.
Drina hummed in her throat. The cat stood at an open shutter, admiring her reflection in the window.
T’Blackthorn looked over his shoulder at his Familiar and smiled with sincere amusement that made Mitchella catch her breath. “Drina says she is a Cat with Excellent Taste.”
Mitchella managed a smile. “She certainly thinks so.”
His thumb rubbed the indentation on the card, triggering the projection of a model room holo about 11⁄2 by 2 meters. The pink marble walls contained darker streaks for visual interest, and all the furniture was a glossy deep burgundwood. The bedsponge lay on a stand, with diaphanous curtains layered around it and attached to the ceiling. The curtains swirled with the slightest hints of sparkling rainbow-pastel glitter, as if a fairy galaxy had been caught in their folds.
As he gazed at the room model, the sensual tension spinning between them quieted to something deeper and more serious.
T’Blackthorn touched the image and it disappeared. He curled his fingers over the business card, his face taut and his eyes yearning. “I’ve spent years in the wilds. I’ve missed the furbelows of very female women, of Ladies, and forgotten how—soft—your sex can be.”
“You’ve stayed with the Hollys.” She’d heard that much.
He raised an eyebrow. “My uncle and cuzes, and other relatives, a HouseHold of mostly men. My aunt, D’Holly, is a very dynamic woman.”
“And feminine.” Mitchella had met D’Holly once.
“T’Holly Residence is decorated with weapons in patterns on the walls—circles and diamonds of knives, spears, swords. All within easy reach. There are paintings of battle, tapestries of hunts,” he gestured with the hand holding her pink card, “male stuff.” He moved his shoulders impatiently.
“I’ll take it,” he murmured.
“Take what?”
“The room. I want one just like it in my Residence. You have the job.”
Glee blossomed inside her. She could barely keep from dancing around the room. This would make her reputation!
He smiled and she knew she shouldn’t be near this man. She should run as fast and as far away as she could from him. But an opportunity to design the interior of one of the twenty-five FirstFamily Residences would never come again. And T’Blackthorn’s! It had been a showplace once, one of the most beautiful houses in Druida. She could make it so again.
She looked into his dark blue eyes.
“I want it.” He flicked his thumbnail on the card and the model room spun once again into life. “I’ll take it. No expense spared.”
Mitchella had always dreamed of hearing those words. Now they tempted her beyond all bounds.
He collapsed the holo and tucked the card in a hidden shirtslit pocket. Then he put an arm on the buffet and leaned forward. “You have more?”
Mitchella backed up. “More?”
“More cards—room models.”
She pulled out her cards and offered him the one of mock-furrabeast leather grain. He activated it. A meter-sized image of a masculinely furnished ResidenceDen materialized. T’Blackthorn tilted his head. “Nice. A little conservative for my taste.” He shot her a look. “You’ll remember that.”
“That’s my business. Of course.”
He nodded.
“We’ll meet tomorrow at mid-morning bell, then. I want to start work on the pink room immediately, in the MistrysSuite.”
Mitchella stiffened her backbone. “Absolutely not.”
T’Blackthorn raised his eyebrows.
She lifted her chin before answering. “Your wife must decorate the suite.”
He scowled. “I’m not married.” He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “I think I have a HeartMate. I touched her during my last Passage to free my Flair.”
Mitchella should have been relieved. Of course he’d have a HeartMate, someone he’d bond with body, heart, mind, and soul. Most FirstFamily Nobles were that lucky. It came of having great psi powers and breeding for Flair. Bonded HeartMate couples led to more stable Families and increasingly Flaired children.
Inwardly she flinched. He had a HeartMate. It would be complete folly to have an affair with him.
As if he read her mind, he said, “I’m not ready to find or bond with my HeartMate. Everything must be perfect before I do that. T’Blackthorn Residence must be restored and sparkling. Other—problems—must be solved.”
So he’d be happy to have an interim affair with a commoner before he sought his HeartMate. Typical man. Typical Noble. The thought bolstered Mitchella’s resistance to the electricity between them.
“I’ll be glad to make T’Blackthorn Residence as perfect as possible, GrandLord,” she said coolly, professionally.
Drina jumped up on the buffet and swiped a paw at one of the pink cards Mitchella still held. The cat impaled it on her claw. She tapped the indentation and the pink model room appeared. Staring at T’Blackthorn, she mewed.
His lips quirked in amusement and he slid a sidelong gaze to Mitchella. “She wants the pink room.” Narrowing his eyes, he studied Drina, then glanced back to the model bedroom. Now a small Drina image sat regally on the bed.
T’Blackthorn nodded his head. “She says the room would complement Her, make Her look beautiful. She’s right.”
They were both right, Mitchella realized. The cat looked perfect in the room.
He gazed at Drina, and when he spoke, his tones were quelling. “Your room is the small dressing room between the MasterSuite and MistrysSuite,” he informed the cat. “I’m sure GentleLady Clover can decorate it to your undeniably good taste.”
Drina pressed the holo control on the business card again and again, until the pink room, magnified and distorted, overwhelmed the real room they stood in.
“Very well,” T’Blackthorn sighed. “I’ll indulge you this once. You may have the pink room. We’ll decorate the guest room next to the MasterSuite, I’ll have a connecting door cut.”
Drina flexed her paw and the model room vanished as the card spun to the carpet. It was just a business card again. With a claw-hole in it.
He looked at Mitchella, his gaze lingering on the tumble of her hair, her face, her lips. “I think we will do very well together.”
“That’s my job.”
He offered a hand. Reluctantly, Mitchella gave him her own. Instead of shaking it, he lifted it to his mouth. The soft pressure of his warm lips went directly to her center. She pulled away, pasting on another professional smile.
“Till tomorrow, then,” he said.
“Yes.” She’d be up all night studying all the information she could on T’Blackthorn Residence. She was sure she recalled it being featured several times in various publications on architecture, furnishings, how the FirstFamilies lived. She needed plans and dimensions. Old holos of how the rooms looked. Perhaps she could even get some sort of idea of the pr
evious owners’ tastes.
Then realization struck.
The Blackthorn curse.
She stared at him.
He, just like T’Ash, had lost his entire Family.
But not to a rival Nobleman—to some disease. Her stomach clenched. This man and she had another thing in common. Loss. He had lost all he loved in the past. She had lost the hope of children to love in the future.
T’Blackthorn stilled as if understanding she’d finally remembered the history of his line. She wondered if he read her own heartache.
They shared a moment of silence throbbing with untold griefs. Then, T’Blackthorn inclined his head. “Merry meet.”
“And merry part,” Mitchella replied through dry lips.
“And merry meet again,” he said. “Come, Drina.”
Drina brushed against Mitchella, purring loudly, leaving little white hairs clinging to her onesuit, then jumped to T’Blackthorn’s shoulder.
“Right,” Straif said to his Fam, then looked again at Mitchella. “Drina thanks you for the pink chamber. We’ll start with that.” Cat attached to his broad shoulder, he strode from the room.
Mitchella let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d hurry home to research T’Blackthorn Residence. But at least doing the first room would be easy.
It was, after all, her bedroom.
Heart Duel Page 37