Prince of Honor (House of Terriot Book 1)

by Nancy Gideon

  His jaw worked silently while he considered her request. “All right,” he answered at last, tone less than enthusiastic about his decision. “As long as you—”

  “I’ll behave.”

  Another sidelong look narrowed in suspicion. After reading her resigned expression, he allowed a slight nod before returning eyes to the increasingly busy road.

  His posture changed. The atmosphere in the cab thickened like a shift in barometric pressure. Tension vibrated from his rigidly held position, charging the air between them as he grew increasingly attuned to her agitation.

  “Turow?”

  He glanced at her after a brief hesitation.

  “Thank you.”

  Something flickered in his desert-sky blue eyes. Regret? Reluctance? Wariness?

  No. It was something altogether different. Something she’d seen in them before. That opportunity she’d been searching for.

  It was desire.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Instead of entering the bustling tourist town in search of a high-end hotel with all the amenities, Turow pulled into the rutted lot of a rather seedy motor lodge on its outskirts.

  “You’re not serious.” With a sinking dismay, Sylvia eyeballed the single-story adobe squatting beneath a glaring neon sign featuring a flowering cactus and the words “Free Ice. Rooms $45.” “Did you reach the gazillionaire limit on your House of Terriot gold card?”

  He observed her appearance in a cool rebuff. “Just looking for someplace where we’ll fit in, no questions asked.”

  Two bruised, grimy strangers in a well-traveled pick-up. She sniffed at the ugly truth of it. No one would be in a big hurry to nose into their business or offer any aid here.

  Turow pulled into a space in the center of the small lot instead of in front of the flickering "Office" sign and cut the engine. So whoever worked the desk couldn’t get a good look at her. He reached over to lower the visor on her side for added privacy. “Sit tight while I check us in.”

  “Ask for the honeymoon suite.”

  He blinked at the request then surprised her with a quick grin. “I’ll do that.” He slid out and locked the door before striding up to the building.

  Her glare followed, watching the fading light spark the red in his cropped hair before that now-appreciative look dropped to the broad spread of his shoulders and lingered on the bunch and shift of back pockets in his snug jeans. Turow Terriot, the monastic priest in the midst of horny, hell-raising brothers. Why hadn’t she ever appreciated his truly fine ass before it was too late?

  Or was it?

  Tick tock. Her options grew fewer by the second.

  The sign at the desk read “Cheap rates, Clean sheets.” That they’d feel that last worth mentioning almost made Turow hesitate. But then the old Native American woman at the counter spotted him, and her toothy smile spread wide.

  “Heya, handsome. Need a place to hunker down for the night? Got our last nice room available.”

  Which made him wonder what the not so nice rooms would be like. He reached for his wallet.

  The woman tore her avid gaze from his chest to look to the truck out in the lot. “You got someone with you?”

  “My wife. We’ve been on the road a long time, and she’s looking forward to a hot shower.”

  Keen eyes touching on his unadorned left hand, she chuckled. “That we can offer. And iffen she’s hungry, there’s a decent take-out place next door . . . if you’d rather not be disturbed.” Her brows waggled meaningfully.

  Turow just smiled. “Thank you. We’d rather not be.” He placed three twenties on the counter. “We’re meeting up with family tomorrow, so we’d like to have tonight to ourselves.”

  She swept up the bills. “I’ll see to it.”

  He put down another twenty. “I appreciate that.”

  That, too, disappeared. “My pleasure.” She passed over a key. “Room Twelve. On the end to your right. Should be nice and quiet for the two of you. Got a mountain view, too.”

  “The sign said free ice. Where’s your machine?”

  “It’d be free if we had one that worked.” She laughed at the inside joke.

  Turow pointed to the statement regarding sheets. “Please tell me you’re not out of those?”

  “Changed ′em myself this morning. Enjoy your stay,” she offered with a bawdy wink. “You’ll have to use the pay phone by the door there if you want to make calls. There aren’t any in the rooms.”

  “Good to know. Thank you.”

  Sylvia didn’t spare him a glance as he climbed back in and drove down the row of equally shabby vehicles to the last space. After parking, he gathered up their foodstuffs and circled the front end to open the passenger door, discreetly unlocking the cuff and holding his prisoner’s wrist tightly in case she considered making a run for it. She slid out, her body bumping and rubbing a scorching path down his before she quickly put distance between them.

  “Behave,” he warned, leading her up to the door to their overnight haven.

  It could have been worse. But it could have been a hell of a lot better, too. The musty smell of old motel greeted them the way it must have an endless parade of weary guests over the years. Heavy drapes on front and side windows were drawn, blocking that famous view and making the interior a dark, uninviting cave. The switch at the door didn’t work, forcing him to cross to the queen bed to the light on the night stand. The darkness was better, Turow decided with a discriminating sweep. At least it looked passably clean. A wall-mounted TV, a wobbly dresser, a café table with two wooden chairs and a useless ice bucket filled the small space.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked as Sylvia gingerly sat to test the mattress. At least it didn’t squeak. “I thought we’d grab some take-out from the place next door.” His brow furrowed as he considered the logistics of keeping her beside him in public without raising suspicion.

  She looked toward the bathroom door with longing. “I’d rather get a shower first.”

  He checked the tiny bathroom. Decked out in retro rose-colored tiles, with single sink and small mirror that was lit brightly enough to do surgery, it offered a tub/shower combo and plain white towels smelling of starchy bleach. No window, he noted. The shower curtain was sheer, inviting images of his companion’s lush body all slick and naked behind it. He quickly turned out of the room.

  “Go ahead and get washed up while I head next door for food. You got a taste for anything in particular?”

  She arched a delicate brow. “What are you offering?”

  He angled away before her shrewd gaze settled lower. “Whatever’s on their limited menu.”

  “Oh.” A sigh. “I guess I don’t have to watch my weight. Whatever you think would make a suitable last meal.” She slipped into the bathroom before he could come up with a response to her tart tone, but she leaned back out to add, “With cheese fries and a chocolate malt.” The door closed between them.

  He was just going across the parking lot. How far could she get on foot? He had the keys to the truck. She had no money for the phone. But she was still a dangerously clever female. He rubbed at his still tender jaw. He’d made the mistake of underestimating her before.

  As much as he didn’t trust her alone, he desperately needed some saving distance from the constant temptation she’d become. Remaining in the room much longer listening to the jingle of the shower curtain and the sounds of spray against bare skin presented equal dangers. Like forgetting what he was supposed to be doing in lieu of what he’d dreamed of doing ever since he’d snatched her out of her bed in next to nothing. Sylvia Terriot made it hard for him to remember his priorities.

  Hell, she just made him hard.

  He could almost feel his palms working up a lather on her soft skin the way she’d been working up a lather inside him all day. A man could only stand so much torment. Even a boringly dutiful man.

  Carefully, Turow eased the bathroom door open.

  Sylvia paused in her vigorous scrubbing. Had she heard someo
ne come in? She waited, listening, but no.

  Was that disappointment she felt? Sharing a shower with the Terriot prince wouldn’t exactly be torture, especially since a meal wasn’t about to become the only last thing she’d ever enjoy.

  Squeezing off-brand shampoo into her palm, she quickly washed her hair, considered how best to use her limited time. As much as she hated the idea of pulling the awful borrowed clothing back on, if she was quick, she could slip out of the room, either through door or window, and make a run for it. She dismissed the idea of seeking help from a neighboring room. Turow was no one a stranger would be willing to take on in what he’d spin as a domestic dispute. Her only chance would be snagging a ride from a passing car before their meals were up. Once in town, she could find a place to hide out until she could reach James and then just pray he’d think her worth rescuing. Turow was a highly skilled hunter, and he’d be on her scent like a hound from hell. And if he caught her, there would be hell to pay.

  Denying her longing to linger under the spray, she scrubbed off as much grime and fatigue as possible then climbed out of the tub, reaching for one of the stiff towels. She’d just begun to hurriedly rub herself dry when she noticed that the closed lid on the toilet was empty.

  The son-of-a-bitch had taken her clothes, right down to the ugly gel shoes!

  Even though the counter where he waited for their order offered a clear view of the front of the motel, caution kept Turow fidgeting until he was able to hurry back to their room. Smiling slightly at the thought of her irritation, he paused to retrieve her clothes and his duffle from the truck before easing back into the semi-dark room to face an uncertain welcome.

  Instead of waiting behind the door to ambush him, he found his prisoner seated at the café table draped in one of the thin blankets from the bed calmly brushing her towel-dried hair. She ignored him with regal indifference until he set the food and her malt on the table and took the chair opposite. She tore into the bag, unwrapping her burger and fries the way she’d once unwrapped him, with a hurried, hungry eagerness.

  His own appetite now rerouted from the meal, Turow ate methodically, trying to keep his stare from where the edge of the blanket tucked in above those glorious breasts. Just one quick tug . . .

  And his life would be over. Completely destroyed by an obvious seduction that had brought many a man to ruin.

  He hadn’t led an exciting life. He shunned politics, but he’d thrown himself heart and soul into service to their new king. Cale’s trust meant everything to him, gave him purpose, validated him as important to their clan in a way that lightened his spirit and made him feel needed. He’d never asked for much, never wanted much except for a place to belong and a job to do.

  Was a stolen moment with a woman who would never really want him worth throwing all that away?

  Purposefully, he lowered his gaze to watch as she drew a cheese-drenched fry through ketchup. Following that slow swirl. Feeling his skin tighten as if those clever fingers were tracing an erotic design across it. The fantasy ended when he noticed a tremor shake through her hand.

  Before he could raise his eyes to meet hers, Sylvia pushed from the table, moving to the bed in agitation. She perched on the foot of it, presenting him with a rigid back and shoulders that trembled ever so slightly.

  When she didn’t return to the table, he coaxed, “You should eat.”

  “Why?” Her voice had a raspy edge both fierce and subtly sexy. And strangely fragile. “To keep my strength up so I can face accusers who don’t give a damn what I have to say? Who won’t be any more sympathetic than you are?”

  Turow said nothing.

  “A full stomach isn’t going to save me from what we both know is going to happen tomorrow. But at least I won’t disgrace myself by throwing up for their entertainment.” The back of her hand raked ruthlessly across her eyes.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She turned on him in a fury to snarl, “Don’t you dare pity me!”

  “I don’t,” he said softly. “You knew what you were doing, and you knew the risk.”

  She studied him angrily, fiercely narrowed eyes unable to hold back tears of fright and despair. “Yes, I did. I gambled and lost. I’m sure many will rejoice in my fall.”

  “I won’t be one of them.”

  Sylvia seized on that confession with an urgent desperation. “Then let me go. They’re going to kill me, Row. We both know it. Please let me go!”

  “You know I can’t.”

  She turned away from his painful honesty, crumpling, burying her face in the well of her palms for a brief moment before scrubbing it dry. Her shoulders squared and steadied. Her tone was taut as steel.

  “We both have our roles to play. I don’t fault you for yours. You’ve always been a good man, Turow. Too good for me.”

  “I’ve never believed that.”

  “Only you would say such a thing.” She laughed quietly and shook her head. “Good to the very last.” A sigh. “I wish I’d made better choices, but it’s too late for regrets now.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “No. Of course not. You know me, Row. I never tell the truth when a lie will serve me better.”

  “I don’t believe that, either.”

  Her shoulders rose and fell. Silence settled, deep and oddly comfortable between them. Finally, she swiveled to face him, features composed.

  “If you can’t let me go, there is something you can do for me.” She smiled as wariness shadowed his expression. “Nothing terrible that will threaten your moral core. Or, maybe it will.”

  “What?” Just that. Simple and direct, like the man.

  He watched her approach, cautious but unflinching as her hand fit to his rough cheek.

  “If this is my last night on earth, I don’t want to spend it eating cheese fries and recounting my regrets. I want to live it. Help me feel alive, Turow. Can you do that for me?”

  She bent. His eyes didn’t close as her mouth brushed over his. His lips parted slightly so their breaths could mingle, warm and unhurried. Her thumb stroked beneath his chin as she straightened.

  “Will you deny me my last request?” she asked.

  “Will I live to regret it?”

  Her laugh rumbled with amusement. “I don’t expect you to trust me.” To prove that, she moved back to the bed. Picking up the discarded cuffs, she snapped one about her wrist and the other to the iron headboard before sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Many a man would consider this a fitting last request for themselves. How about you? Worth the risk?” A quick tug parted the blanket that covered her. “Make these last moments ones I can cling to . . . later.”

  Her request stunned him. Her vulnerable position shocked to his soul. He knew for an absolute certainty that these few hours would be the high point in the rest of his remaining years, for however many stretched out alone and empty without her.

  Worth the risk?

  Worth everything.

  Each step was like walking toward a dream and his own potential doom. It seemed to take forever to cross that yawning space to where she sat all voluptuous and infinitely inviting. No modesty or uncertainty showed in either posture or uplifted gaze. Sylvia Terriot had never been either thing. He could believe what she said or be damned by her hidden agenda. It didn’t matter now, not as the soft curve of her lovely face filled his palms and anticipation had his heart hammering a savage tattoo.

  This wasn’t unfamiliar ground. They’d crossed it before. Knowing they’d never do so again lent a sharp edge of urgency as their lips met once more.

  His kiss devouring her quiet moan of compliance, Turow gripped her waist, lifting her from the pooling blanket. He turned to assume his place on the edge of the bed with Sylvia crouching over him, legs spread wide to straddle his hips, cuffed arm curled behind him while her free hand traveled the rugged terrain of back and shoulders.

  When they both were breathless and gasping, he settled her back to perch on his knees, holding her bright stare
for countless minutes before gradually allowing his gaze to lower.

  No artist, no sculptor could have envisioned a more spectacular study of the female form. Beneath the russet blaze of hair framing a face that was perfection, except for her blackened eye, her body continued to seduce the senses with creamy, unblemished skin over supple contours promising both yielding softness and challenging strength. She never moved as his hands traveled from the slope of her shoulders down sleek limbs and toned thighs. Her breath caught slightly as the reacquainting stroke rose from the nip of her waist up the flare of her torso to encompass full breasts, kneading firmly, thumbs teasing deep red nipples into hard points of want.

  She drew a quick inhale as his head lowered, as his scratchy cheek rubbed over and around those sensitive swells and tips with a leisurely deliberation. Her fingers clenched in his short hair as he took one achy peak in his mouth, sucking slowly until the steady, erotic pull tugged all the way down to where she was slick and more than ready. That slow teasing torture went on and on until she writhed on his lap, hips moving in needy, anxious circles.

  “Touch me,” she whispered, voice strained and rough. “Put your hands on me, Row. I need to feel you inside me.”

  His palms moved unhurriedly down her ribcage to soothe over the tops of quivering thighs, never altering the rhythmic appreciation of lips, tongue and, oh God!, teeth. She tensed as strong fingers capped her legs, and thumbs strayed closer and closer to her clenched and drenched core, grazing the smooth mound before dipping down into slick folds. Rubbing. Circling. Tormenting until her hips thrust greedily in search of satisfaction.

  He paused.

  Panting, wild for that release he denied her, Sylvia growled low and fierce, “Don’t stop, damn you!”

  His head lifted so he could meet her stare.

  He had the nerve to smile and say mildly, “There’s no hurry. We have all night.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Then by all means, take your sweet time.”