Rough Surrender

by Cari Silverwood

  At the sound, Faith swung around, her skirt flaring enough to show ankle, a stray lock of her black hair flipping onto her forehead. Her glossed lips were parted, her pupils wide.

  He had her alone. Lord, what he wouldn’t like to do with her.

  Chapter 3

  Count to five then decide if I want him to open the door. He’s not going to attack me. Jeremy has vouched for the man. I’m an adult, and should behave like one. Yet the clunk as the door shut still echoed in her head.

  Mr. Meisner’s boots shone, his gray trousers creased in a straight line and his dark gray coat and white shirt were buttoned neatly as if he’d not just been out on the river fishing for body parts–attired as a perfect gentleman should be. His baldness strengthened his features, making the clean wedge of his nose like that of an Indian chieftain. The only softness in his face rested in those lustrous brown eyes. As if she’d awakened some connection, they flared to life–going from impassive to controlled ferocity.

  Cold tap-danced down her spine. She tore her gaze away, saw his hands clench to loose fists then relax–such long, yet capable fingers. She remembered how they’d felt, holding hers. Warmth spread in her groin and breasts.

  Oh. No. No. No. She blinked. Stop thinking of such things.

  From under her lashes, she dared another glimpse of his face. “Sir.”

  “Yes?”

  He lifted an eyebrow. If only she could tell what it revealed, apart from more of his infernal patience. Was she some sort of insect that he studied her so closely? Though, of course, she’d done the same. Heat spread across her cheeks.

  “I just...” She paused. “Erm...never mind.”

  Flustered, unable to meet his eyes any longer, she swung to look about the workshop...and workshop it definitely was. Along the right wall a heavy bench held tools and pieces of machinery. Brow furrowing, she spotted a lathe, an array of hammers, pincers and wrenches, a vice, and a mold for pouring metal. At the back wall was a kiln. From the ceiling dangled electric lamps and two hoists with chains attached for maneuvering heavy items. Ideal for what she needed to reconstruct her airplane.

  Five large crates lay on the concrete in the center of the floor. Only five?

  She walked over. “Ah. These I recognize.”

  She checked the freight notices scribbled on the sides–anything to put a bit of distance between Mr. Meisner and herself.

  “There’s one missing. The anzani engine crate’s not here.” She reached up and unpinned her hat to occupy her hands then dropped the hat and pins on top of the one crate that didn’t come to head height.

  Footsteps warned of Mr. Meisner’s approach. She tensed.

  “Are you sure, Miss Evard?”

  “Yes. Tarnation! How am I to fly an airplane with no engine?”

  “Perhaps it will turn up.” His voice rumbled at her ear.

  Startled, she gasped and spun. Her heels snagged the edge of a crate. Arms flailing, she fell backward, only to be caught by Mr. Meisner.

  Oh, damnation. Embarrassment and irritation flooded her in equal parts. Still tilted backward, with the man’s hands clasping her waist, she looked up and discovered those brown eyes gazing back. Her tongue seized up, caught somewhere in the middle of her mouth. Really, she had no idea where any part of her body was, except where his hands pressed on her, because she’d melted like butter in the hot sun.

  Through her dress and corset, she registered the shift of his fingers. Was that his heartbeat or hers, thumping in her ears?

  “Uh. Sir.” The words came out strangled. “Please put me down.”

  For a few long seconds he didn’t move. “Of course, Miss Evard.” He drew her upright then steadied her. “Be careful.”

  While she straightened her dress, he studied the crates. “Why do you do this? Why do you feel the need to”–he indicated the crates–“to fly?”

  The column of muscle running up the side of his neck tightened and stood out as he leaned over the crate. His clothing rustled softly, moved against his skin... She smelled sweat and plain raw maleness and even that, she half-shut her eyes, even that made her want...want something she didn’t quite understand.

  “Why fly? Hmm.” Answer the man. Just because he had her blood running hot enough to cook with didn’t mean she should act stupid. “You’ve never flown, have you? It’s something you need to do before you can understand.”

  Why him? Why this man? She licked her lips and tasted lipstick. Oh. He’d noticed. Somehow, he’d seen the flick of her tongue. The cool of saliva on her upper lip seemed to blatantly advertise her sex and how much he’d shaken her. He took a quiet step closer.

  Trembling, she put her hand behind her and gripped the timber hard enough to squash her fingertips flat, to make it hurt. That too he noticed, his gaze resting on her upper arm, then on the low neckline of her gown where her breasts swelled. Nothing escaped him.

  “You’re nervous, Faith,” he said softly.

  She backed up until her buttocks hit the crate. This is when I scream, or...or...

  “Say something.” He reached out then stopped, his finger a morsel of an inch before her mouth. She swung her gaze to him, then down to his finger, going almost cross-eyed–every crease and callous was visible–then couldn’t stop her tongue coming out to rest on her lip and back in again.

  “Say anything. Faith.”

  At the sound of her name, she quivered. Everything he did, every action, every word, seemed to take some piece of her being and place it in his possession and she could only wait, trembling, for his next move.

  He touched her mouth. A tingle spread. She closed her eyes and felt his fingertip slide like a water droplet over the bulge of her lip, down to her jaw, to her neck, stopping in the groove where her pulse came to the surface.

  “What...if I speak?” she whispered. This was wrong, unladylike, but ever, ever, so nice.

  “I’ll stop. And”– the rumble of his words came louder, nearer. His breath warmed her face–“never bother you again. I won’t count”–his lips touched the corner of her eye, light as a memory, heavy with promise, settling down through her flesh–“your last words.” His other hand found her wrist where she still pressed her palm against the wood. He circled it with his strong fingers, pulled her hand up to the small of her back. “At all.”

  “Say something.” As he whispered, his lips brushed across her ear.

  She opened her mouth but all that emerged were small panting breaths. He circled the whorls of her ear with lips and wet tongue tip, shifted down to graze her neck, and nibbled. Strange sensations tumbled through her, sweeping away doubts, leaving only here and now and Mr. Meisner. Heat unfurled between her thighs. Her legs wobbled and threatened to give way. She groaned as quietly as she could. His lips left her.

  She opened her eyes just enough to see. With finger and thumb he tilted up her head then one after the other he found long strands of her hair and brought them down to veil her eyes.

  “You liked that?”

  If she said yes, would it be a sin?

  Her fringe swayed like seaweed shielding a cave deep beneath the ocean. Only outside this cave loomed a creature she’d never seen before–a man who both terrified and excited her.

  What to do? What to say?

  Mr. Meisner took two harsh breaths, released her hand and pushed away then stepped back. Was he suffering the same turmoil that raged through her?

  Though common sense returned, the strength had fled from her muscles. Her legs shook. She leaned against the crate and tried not to let her breasts heave as her lungs craved air that seemed in short supply. Her hand was behind her back, precisely where he’d held it. She had liked that, liked how he’d held her; liked everything he’d done. What was wrong with her?

  He’d asked a question.

  “No,” she said raggedly. “I didn’t like it.” I loved it. Please, please do it again, no matter how much I protest... Of course, she couldn’t say that. Only loose women begged for such things.
<
br />   That eyebrow angled. “Then, I do beg your pardon, Miss Faith Evard.” He straightened his shirt cuffs.

  “We should return to your vehicle, Mr. Meisner.”

  She levered away from the crate and, to her relief, her legs held. Pretending to ignore his towering presence, she walked around Mr. Meisner toward the door. The hollow clack of her heels only emphasized how alone they were in here. The airplane–she’d forgotten to look at it properly. Tomorrow would do. She’d return with someone else by her side, because Mr. Meisner really wasn’t trustworthy, was he?

  She halted at the door, put her palm to the wood while her other hand brushed her fringe back as well as she could without a mirror–needing that moment to compose herself.

  Liar. Damnable liar. She had let him do that. She couldn’t trust herself.

  “Leonhardt,” he said.

  “What?” Frowning, she turned. At least, this time he’d kept some distance, a few feet, between them. Not enough. Her treacherous tongue curled out to touch her lip. Why did she do that? As if...as if she could taste him on the air. Her nostrils flared. She could smell him, though: tobacco and soap and sweat, but even in winter, Cairo would make anyone sweat.

  “Leonhardt. Call me that.”

  “I doubt that would be appropriate, Mr. Meisner.”

  His mouth curved in a small smile. “You lied before. Of course.” He took an unhurried stride forward, brought up his arms and braced them either side of her head.

  Hell.

  “If it weren’t for that adorable tongue of yours, I’d have let you go. Now, I’m going to see what you taste like.” He lowered his head.

  She strained away, the back of her skull smacking lightly into the timber.

  “Don’t move.” Those two words were like nails driving her into place. He covered her lips with his and she gave a muffled groan as his tongue slid into her mouth alongside hers.

  All resistance vaporized. She fought to stay aware and upright though her legs threatened to collapse and her logical brain had disintegrated into a swirl of lustful thoughts. Nothing mattered except the feel of him inside her. His lips pressed and slid, his teeth caught her flesh here, there...his breath merged with hers. This was a man who knew how to take.

  His body moved in, squeezing her between timber and man. If she needed to breathe, she must accept what he gave her. If he didn’t hold her there, she’d fall. The world shifted on its axis.

  Sweet Jesus, she loved it.

  This time, when he drew away, she kept her fingers hooked into the heavy fabric of his coat. Something hard and long pulsed against her stomach–his manhood. All of their own accord, her hips arched forward. Her panting came a little faster.

  “We’d best be leaving.” He stroked the side of her face with his knuckles.

  “Mmm.” Someone had put glue on her tongue and throat

  “Mmm? You kiss like an angel come down from heaven, sweetheart. Tell me the truth this time, before I let you go. Did you like that?”

  Before I let you go That matter-of-fact statement shook her. Her eyes swept up, found his–so striking, so intense. She searched for a word to describe them. Animalistic? When eyes were given out, he’d been given the wrong ones–those of a hawk or wolf.

  She considered lying but couldn’t, not while he held her still in place. “Yes,” she whispered. “I did.”

  His knuckles feathered over her lips and, on impulse, she licked at them. His eyes darkened.

  A hiss escaped from between his teeth. “You tempt me too much.” Then he stood, moved back and gestured at the door.

  It took a moment for her to adjust to the loss–of feeling his body on hers.

  By the time he slid back the door and guided her toward the motorcar with his hand low on her back, she’d done some thinking. If she’d doubted his effect on her, she now knew for certain. He’d given her an entirely new understanding of kissing. Mr. Meisner...Leonhardt, could own her without doing anything more than saying a single word.

  He opened the passenger door. Their eyes met.

  Well, two words. She wasn’t that easy.

  Don’t move. The memory of her response scalded her. Like a cat on heat, she wanted to lie down at his feet and arch her back. Whatever am I going to do?

  Chapter 4

  The two-minute drive to the hotel allowed Leonhardt more than enough time to curse himself.

  Forget his vow in London, he needed to make a new one tonight–to never touch Faith again. Control was the foundation of his life and he’d completely lost it back there at the workshop. So she’d liked what he did–most women liked kissing. They just didn’t always admit to it. Ah, but he had pushed just that little bit further, enough to see she liked him restraining her. Enough to make him speculate how far she’d let him go.

  From the lack of anything except Mrs. Willoughby’s snoring from the back of the car, he wondered if Faith was having as many second thoughts as he was. Damnation. He’d probably scared her.

  Mrs. Willoughby woke as he curved the car in to bump across the tramline and park on the circular drive at the front of the Heliopolis Palace Hotel on the Boulevard Abbas. “My word!” she squeaked. “What an extraordinary sight!”

  “Only recently finished, Mrs. Willoughby. Kings, princes, heads of state–they’ve all been guests here.” The facade of the hotel seemed to stretch forever to each side. The mix of Moorish, Islamic and Neo-Classical architecture and the grandiose minaret at the back gave it a unique appearance he’d not seen matched anywhere, including the French palaces. It was the showcase of Heliopolis. From the lights shining on every story, most of its four hundred rooms must be occupied. The air show had drawn people from all over the world.

  He tapped his fingers on the hard steering wheel and shifted in his seat, about to say something innocuous to Mrs. Willoughby.

  “It’s quite beautiful, Mr. Meisner,” Faith murmured, without emerging from the pool of shadow immersing her.

  He smiled. “Not as beautiful as the two ladies I see before me.”

  Faith made no reply. He resisted looking closer. Scared? Tired? Or simply playing her hand close to her chest? He couldn’t say. Anyone who could contemplate taking off in a flying machine must have a pretty sturdy backbone...though, he felt his amusement spread...her backbone seemed mighty pliable when he had her under his hands.

  “Beautiful? Mr. Meisner! You do go on.” The older woman sputtered a moment and played with the drape of her dress. “Of course, I cannot stay here. It’s far beyond my means. Far beyond.”

  “The director, Herr Doerhoefer, is a close friend. I assure you the rate will be reasonable. Our company has a room permanently reserved for guests. I work for the Heliopolis Oases Company.”

  “No. No, I simply cannot, sir. Must insist you return me to my hotel. No maid, no clothes. Heavens, how could I possibly take a room? And then there’s been all this kerfuffle over dead bodies in the river. Goodness, such an upsetting night. Faith will come with me.”

  After having been silent for so long, Faith’s voice came as a pleasant surprise–flowing through him like warm honey. “No. I’ll stay the night. I adore adventure, Mrs. Willoughby, and the Heliopolis Palace Hotel looks like something out of my dreams. I always wanted to stay somewhere with a minaret.”

  “Faith!”

  “Oh goodness! I’m simply taking a room by myself. I assure you I won’t be inviting half the eligible bachelors up there once you’re gone.”

  Holding back a grin wasn’t easy. Faith had a backbone indeed. Determined little woman, wasn’t she? Though, hell dammit, in a few days she’d be haring around the skies trying to kill herself. Flying around the pyramids? What nonsense.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Willoughby sounded miffed. “I will see you tomorrow then.”

  It was time to exercise that control he’d just reaffirmed. “Very well. Mawson will drive you back. Pick me up here, Mawson. Same place.”

  The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Leonhardt tallied hi
s plan. Take Faith to the reception desk, say a quick goodbye and be back out here to wait for Mawson in say, ten minutes. He tightened his mouth. Yes. Easily done. Except, from the way his cock swelled against his pants, his body had other ideas. Tonight his body would be somewhat disappointed.

  The enchanted expression Faith showed as they walked under the four-story high Moorish arch and into the reception area stirred as much delight in Leonhardt. With the brilliant chandelier lighting her in exquisite detail, he took the time to truly study his little aviator.

  The tiny crease on her brow as she frowned at his inspection, her water-clear gray eyes and the curt way her bottom wiggled as she strode toward the concierge’s desk... Ah, all so wondrous. Her figure beneath the French couture dress curved in all the right places. For a second, he dared to imagine what she’d looked like sans dress, sans corset–just pure naked woman. Even better, naked with chains wrapped around her and a few stripes on that backside.

  Damn. Tamp down that thought.

  Even if he didn’t touch her again, Faith would liven up the next two weeks. He hadn’t looked forward to simply talking to a woman for a long time. With the frivolous Great Week of Aviation happening, he’d been given seven days off to enjoy himself. Though enjoyment and flying seemed diametrically opposite in meaning. Maybe she could explain it without him ever leaving the ground. Better yet would be if she stayed on earth too. He sure as hell wasn’t happy with her going up there to break her neck.

  * * * *

  He was watching her, again. Faith sighed as she reached the desk where the dark-suited concierge waited. After sending her female senses soaring back there at his workshop, Leonhardt had treated her like some sort of Ming dynasty vase. Not a single finger had he laid on her, and goodness, places on her, in her, were throbbing that she’d never known could throb.