by Diana Palmer
He lifted one big hand and touched her hair. “Just be still,” he said quietly. “I want to see you. This is the only way I have, now.”
Guilt made her lie still in his arms as his fingers traced her eyebrows, her forehead, her high cheekbones and straight nose. They lingered on her rounded chin and her soft, bow-shaped mouth. From there they went down to her throat and stilled on the pulse that was surely visible as well as if he’d been able to see it. Her heartbeat was almost shaking her and she had to fight to get in a breath of air.
“You’re nervous,” he said softly.
She bit her lip. “Yes.”
“No need. I’m curious. Surely you did this with your ex-fiancé?” he chided.
She pushed gently against his chest. Her fingers tingled in contact with the hard, warm muscle. “What I did with him is not your business, Mr. Sinclair,” she said uneasily. If he could have seen it, her face was flaming red.
He didn’t like her assertion that it wasn’t his business.
“I’m just curious,” he said sarcastically. “Did that religious thing tie you in knots when you slept with him?”
“Religion is all I’ve had most of my life, Mr. Sinclair. Please don’t ridicule me because I believe in something more powerful than human beings.”
She was so devout. But he’d never felt closer to anyone. The thought shocked him. She was an employee. She was a glorified typist. She had no knowledge of sophisticated living, of men, of the world. Or did she? He’d had too much of women who pretended innocence and were more experienced than he was.
He traced her soft mouth and felt her teeth on the full lower lip. “Stop that,” he said, tugging at it.
She swallowed and drew in a shaky breath. The feel of him was like a narcotic on her senses. He smelled of soap and the faint, lingering scent of aftershave or cologne. He was muscular without being blatant, and as his chest rose and fell, it seemed to her that his own breathing was none too steady.
“Are you on the pill?” he asked suddenly.
She pushed at him, growing frantic when she couldn’t move out of the cage of his arms.
He laughed. “All right,” he said. “Calm down. I get the idea. First you fall in love, then you get in a committed relationship, then you have sex.”
She almost corrected him, that nothing short of a wedding ring was going to get her into any man’s bed, until he laughed again. “It’s not funny,” she muttered angrily.
He took a long breath. There was a lingering smile, but no more amusement. “You fight for your ideals, don’t you, young Emma?” he mused. “I don’t agree with them. But I respect you for them.”
“Thanks. Can I get up, now that we’ve agreed that I’m living in the past?”
His fingers traced her soft mouth, feeling its helpless response. The house was very quiet. The only sounds were her quick breathing, and the furious beat of his own heart. The medicine had relaxed him a little as it took the pain away. Perhaps it had relaxed him too much.
“I’m hungry, Emma,” he whispered, bending slowly to her lips. “I want to see how you taste.”
The last word was almost a groan as he found her mouth with his and possessed it with a tenderness he hadn’t felt since Winona. He could feel Emma’s uncertainty as his mouth teased hers, explored it softly, parted her lips and moved against them with slow, sweet sensuality.
Emma wanted to fight. But it was like a drug. He was tender, and methodical. He didn’t rush. He didn’t demand. He enticed. He coaxed.
Her lips were parting on their own now, following his as they lifted and tempted her, taunted her. He laughed, deep in his throat, at her sudden yielding. So much for her high moral tone. She was as hungry for this as he was. He drew in a quick breath as he felt her hands flatten in the hair over his muscular chest, and reacted to it helplessly. It had been years since he’d been so quickly aroused with a woman.
He wanted to drag her against him and let her feel his hunger, but he hesitated. Even if she was only doing lip service to her morals, he didn’t want to dampen the hunger she was beginning to reveal. He caught her upper lip in both of his and tasted it underneath with his tongue, brushing and lifting. He felt her hands on his upper arms now, her nails digging in involuntarily as she lifted toward him.
His hands slid under her back, under the robe, and he eased down against her, the pressure of his chest even through her gown causing odd, sweet sensations all over her untried body.
One big, strong hand came around to toy with the cotton under her arm. She caught it with a tiny gasp, because even through her robe and gown, his touch was electrifying. But his mouth covered hers again and her fingers relaxed more and more until they moved away. She didn’t want to stop him, anyway. He was making her body sing. He smoothed his fingers over her rib cage, his thumb brushing just the side of her firm breast and making her quiver. He slid it around, over her hips, down to cover her flat stomach.
Why should he suddenly think of babies? His own breath caught against her mouth. A child. He groaned. His mouth became suddenly insistent, demanding. He moved down against her.
Through the gown and robe, she could feel his chest rubbing against her pert little breasts, brushing his chest, arousing him. His hips brushed hers and she felt the changing contours of his body.
A sound worked its way out of her throat and up into his mouth. He recognized it for what it was.
So did she. Even as she heard herself moan, she knew she had to stop him. This could never happen. He was a man who had disposable lovers. She was the woman who’d blinded him. She couldn’t—didn’t—dare let this go any further.
Her hands pressed hard against his chest and she drew her mouth from under his, not without a little shudder of anguish. “Please,” she whispered brokenly. “Please don’t...!
He lifted his head. Odd, that he had a sudden image of white roses and lace flash in his mind.
He moved away from her and fought to catch his breath. It was hard to let her go, because she tasted like heady wine.
He felt her begin to relax as he lifted himself away from her. But his fingers still moved on her rib cage, very slowly, teasing near her breast. He felt her reaction to even that innocent touch. She wanted him. She might not be ready for intimacy, but she wouldn’t resist long, if he insisted. He was sure of it.
Emma was torn between what her body wanted and what she knew she had to do. His touch kindled a hunger that was totally unfamiliar. New. It wasn’t the lure of sex, either. It was something more, something sweeter.
He drew in a last, steadying breath. “You’re very slender, Emma,” he said softly. “How much do you weigh?”
She laughed. “A hundred and ten,” she said, surprised.
“You’re tall.”
“Well, not so very. Just five feet and six inches.”
His hand lifted, reluctantly, and found her hair. It was braided down her back. He smiled. “You don’t let it loose at night?”
“It tangles.”
“I suppose so. What color is it?”
“Blond. Pale blond.”
“And your eyes?”
She smiled. “They’re brown. Dark brown.”
“An interesting combination.”
“I’m not pretty,” she added quietly. “I have regular features, but they’re not beautiful. Nothing like...” She bit her tongue. She was going to say, like that woman who’d cooked him a soufflé once that he complained about. She’d been beautiful. But the woman he’d hated, who’d blinded him, had remembered that. The woman she was pretending to be wouldn’t have known about the soufflé, and he’d have snapped at the memory like a fish biting a worm. She had to be careful about what she said to him.
“Nothing like...?” he asked.
“Nothing like the sort of women you probably know,” she said instead.
>
He shrugged. “They all start to look alike after a while. Feel alike. Sound alike.” He sighed. “I suppose I’ve gotten jaded in my old age, Emma. Women come and go. Mostly they go. I’m thirty-eight. I’m slowing down. I sent the last one away a couple of weeks ago. The one you put through to me recently,” he added with pursed lips.
“Oh, dear.”
“You’ll learn who gets to talk to me and who doesn’t.”
“Do they take numbers and stand in line?” she wondered.
He chuckled. “Not quite.”
It felt comfortable, lying in bed with him. She liked it very much.
“I should go to bed,” she said.
“I guess you should.” He sat up and felt for her arm, pulling her up gently with him.
“Is your head better?” she asked as she got to her feet.
“Much better.” He cocked his head and smiled wickedly. “If I get another migraine, will you come back?”
She laughed softly. “Not without some promises from you first.”
“Coward.”
“You bet.”
He drew in a breath and stretched lazily. Watching him, Emma almost moaned at the way he looked, half-dressed. He was beautiful, like a painting. Like a sculpture.
“I’ll see you in the morning, then,” she said abruptly, because she realized she was enjoying the sight of him a little too much.
“Thanks, Emma,” he said suddenly.
“You’re welcome. I’m glad your head’s better.”
He just nodded.
She went out and closed the door.
He groaned and put his head in his hands. His body was in agony. She wasn’t like his other women, and he wanted her. But she’d expect a commitment, a wedding, the whole nine yards if he gave in to his urges. So what the hell was he going to do now?
Down the hall, Emma was wondering the same thing. She loved kissing him. She loved having him hold her. She should have resisted more. Instead, she’d enjoyed everything he did to her.
It had felt like descriptions she’d read in one of the romance novels she loved to read. She’d dreamed of a kiss like that from a man who’d love her and marry her and make a home with her.
But she had to keep in mind that Connor was a millionaire—maybe even a billionaire. He lived life in the fast lane. Casinos and shows on Broadway and all things glamorous. She’d never fit into that world. And she’d better remember that he didn’t want marriage or children. It would be madness to get involved with him, even in an innocent way.
Beneath all that was the memory that she’d blinded him, that he couldn’t see because she’d gone wild in a speedboat on a lake where one had killed his only brother. She shivered as she thought of the vengeance he was likely to take if he ever found out who she really was. It had been insane to do this, to think that he might soften if he got to know her, that she could tell him and he’d forgive her. This was a man who never forgave anyone, who repaid in kind every transgression. This was a man who didn’t know what mercy was.
She didn’t sleep much. By morning she’d made a decision. It wasn’t an easy one.
Four
Emma went to breakfast the next morning, dragging her feet. She was going to put in her notice. It made her sick to think of leaving him. It was the last thing she wanted to do. But she was susceptible to him. Vulnerable, and he was used to women who thought nothing of climbing into bed with him. She couldn’t do that. It wasn’t who she was.
She walked into the dining room, head high, determined. And...he wasn’t there!
Confused, she sat down. There was only one place setting, for her.
Marie came in with a platter of eggs and sausage. She knew that Emma loved sausage best of all the breakfast foods. She added buttered biscuits to the platter and pushed a jar of homemade blackberry preserves toward Emma.
“My favorite foods,” she exclaimed. “Wow! Thanks, Marie.”
“You’re very welcome,” the older woman said gently.
“Where’s Mr. Sinclair?” she asked with her eyes lowered.
“He actually went to a conference.” She laughed. “It’s the first time since he was, well, you know, that he’s left the house at all. He said it was time he got back into the swing of things and took care of business. He took his attorney with him. You’d like him. Alistair Sims. He’s British.”
“Oh, my,” Emma exclaimed. “This is a small mountain community. He’s British and he wanted to live here? Well, Bear Lake, where we are, is a small town. But we’re near Gainesville, which has over fifty thousand people.”
“Closer to thirty-five thousand.” Marie laughed again. “Yes, Alistair married an American woman and moved here years ago. She died, but he never went home. He said he felt closer to her here, where she’s buried.”
“What a sweet man he must be,” she replied.
“He’s very kind. He can keep secrets, too. That’s important to a man like Mr. Sinclair. You wouldn’t believe the problems money can make for someone who’s wealthy.”
“I can’t, and I don’t mind it at all.” Emma beamed. “I’m happy with my life.”
Marie stared at her. “You make people around you happy, too, Miss Emma,” she said softly. “Mr. Sinclair actually laughs now. He never did before, even when he could see. He was always somber and cold. You’d never know he had a sense of humor. Not until you came along.”
“That makes me feel very good,” Emma confessed. Inside, the guilt was still eating her up, though. Not even what Marie was saying made a lot of difference.
“Well, I’ll get back to work. Call me if you need anything, Miss Copeland.”
“Just Emma,” she corrected, smiling.
“All right, then. Just Emma.” Marie smiled back.
* * *
The house was suddenly empty. Cold. Haunted by memories. Emma walked into the study that Connor used for an office and felt the emptiness like a living thing. When Connor was here, his very presence filled the world. He brought color and life to the house. He seemed larger than life.
Now, without him for the first time since she’d accepted the job, Emma began to realize just how much the big man meant to her. It was dangerous, those feelings. For one thing, she couldn’t afford to become involved with him, in any way. She lived in fear that she’d slip up, and then he’d finally realize who she was. Even though nobody had seen her in the boat the morning of the accident, he was rich. If he wanted to, he could afford plenty of detectives to seek her out.
But he didn’t remember how he’d been hurt. That was her only solace. It gave her the opportunity to look after him, take care of him, make up a little for what she’d done. But if he ever found out...
She shivered, even in the warm room, thinking about how vindictive he was. Mamie’s words rang in her ears. Connor always got even with anyone who crossed him. His vengeance, if he realized that the same woman who’d blinded him was working for him, would be absolute. He might even think she’d done it for another reason, that she was playing him, trying to get money out of him. She knew already that he’d give her anything she asked for, because he was fond of her.
But she hadn’t asked for anything. She never would. She worked for what she got. It would never occur to her to be like the women he knew, greedy, grasping women who only wanted what he had.
She wondered why he liked that sort of woman, like that brunette who made soufflés, or so he said. He knew them to their bones. Perhaps that was why he never got attached to them, because he knew what they were about.
She recalled what he’d told her, about his late wife, and the way she’d died in childbirth. It helped her to understand him, just a little. He blamed the baby for killing her. But that was just God’s will, she thought, and was saddened that he didn’t share her belief system. She sm
iled. His wasn’t a unique viewpoint. In today’s world, many people thought that God was just a myth.
She recalled things she’d read about in history books, about other periods of time when men had become fixated on their own power—only to have some natural disaster remind them that men were less powerful than they believed.
In the winter of 1811–1812, there had been a devastating earthquake on the New Madrid fault in Missouri (which was pronounced New Mádrid, not New Madríd). It had caused damage in many surrounding states, including Georgia. Part of the Mississippi River had run backward. Sand blows—areas that liquefied and sand rushed to the surface in huge circles—had been everywhere in the impact zone. There were a few eyewitness accounts. Not so many people had died, because in those days the area wasn’t as populated as it was today. But after the earthquakes, the churches were full. It just went to show, Emma thought, that people sometimes got reminded that they weren’t all-powerful.
She sat down in the big chair behind Connor’s desk, her fingers caressing the armrests. She missed him. It was insane to let these feelings get a grip on her heart, because inevitably she was going to have to leave. Her great plan to gain his confidence and then tell him what she’d done had gone to pieces. She realized now that she could never do it. She didn’t want to leave. She couldn’t bear the thought of his outrage, his disgust, if he knew who’d blinded him. He would hate her...
She got up from the chair as if it had turned red hot, and walked out of the room. She closed the door behind her, almost overcome with silent fear. She had no one to blame but herself. She’d parked herself in the lion’s den and now she was waiting to be devoured.
In a panic, she went to her room and got out her suitcase. She could run. She could go home to Jacobsville. Not to her father’s ranch; she never wanted to go back there. But the Griers would certainly take her in again. Cash and Tippy had given her the affection she’d never gotten from her father. It was just that she felt she’d imposed on them too much. She had a cousin in Victoria, near Jacobsville, where she could live until she got a new job. Cousin Ella would let her share the big house she’d just inherited, and there was always work at the big ranches nearby; or maybe get a job cooking in a restaurant somewhere.