Rough Surrender

by Cari Silverwood

  Something needed doing. What, she wasn’t sure, but she was pretty certain Mr. Leonhardt Meisner would know, and that was the problem. She hadn’t come to Cairo to dally with a man, no matter that her stepfather, Henri, wanted her married. Jeremy wasn’t husband material, though she was certain Henri had sent him a telegraph advising of her marital status. A proposal was entirely possible.

  She glanced sideways. Leonhardt had arrived and placed himself a full arm’s length away–avoiding her, definitely. Did he think she had the plague? She looked up...and up. Why ever were men made so dashed tall? She wrenched away. Gawking at him would surely encourage more of his inappropriate behavior and she didn’t want that. Did she?

  While Leonhardt explained the situation to the prim concierge, she turned over that thought. What if the old wives’ tale was true? What if there was only one man in the world who could reach her heart? Should she walk away because society’s rules said she should? From her childhood on a cattle station in Australia’s wildest country, she’d learned to ride straight over the top of rules.

  “Good,” said Leonhardt. He turned those mahogany eyes on her. The room shrank. Nothing at all registered in her vision except this man before her. “Good night, Miss Evard.”

  No!

  That little bow of his head and he made as if to walk away.

  “Wait.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Faith swallowed. This was like throwing a hunk of meat to a jaguar, but she’d certainly gained his attention.

  “Please, Mr. Meisner. Your car won’t be back for...” She shrugged. “...forty minutes?”

  “Fifty, perhaps.” The baritone rumble of his voice seemed to release a small earthquake in her veins.

  “Ah. I see. Then, please, stay and share a cup of tea with me.” Tea was always proper. She appealed to the concierge. “There must be somewhere?”

  “Yes, madam.” He nodded. The precise, combed lines of his gray hair didn’t move an inch. “The valet will show you to your room, and just outside, there is a terrace for our guests to partake of small refreshments. The gardens, and the desert beyond, are lovely in the moonlight.”

  “There.” She smiled at Mr. Meisner. “You must come up. Please.”

  The searching look he gave her sent tendrils of a fearful sort of joy seething through her. Had she disturbed some plan of his? Well. It would serve him right for...for being so frightfully forthright. Now, it was her turn.

  Their small circular table and the cushion-padded wrought-iron chairs were in an outer section of the semicircular terrace. The night had ticked to nine o’clock. Only one other couple shared the third-story balcony with them and they were far over on the other side. The gardens may have been riveting but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the man opposite. He was almost too large for the chair and his hand dwarfed the teacup. And his baldness–it seemed to strip away the frippery of society and leave pure man. Pure devastating maleness.

  No hint in his demeanor as to the ardent kiss in his workshop. None. Very well, she too could be cool and collected. Damn him.

  When he didn’t begin the conversation and seemed more inclined to stare out over her shoulder at the desert, Faith decided to venture some words.

  “So, Mr. Meisner–”

  His attention shifted to her and, for the sliver of a second, she paused, her throat drying to dust, urging her to swallow, but she refused to show weakness. Somehow she doubted he’d miss noticing such things.

  “Yes?” Suavely, he rearranged his shirt cuffs before lifting his cup and sipping. His Adam’s apple moved slowly and languidly. Her fingers could be there, if she but stretched out, and touched...

  She sniffed. Where had that idea come from?

  “Hmm. I was wondering if you’d heard any news of the aviation week? Is all going well?” Affecting a sureness that had deserted her, Faith raised her cup and tried not to let it clink on her teeth.

  “They say the winds may make flying dangerous. The organizers should have known this though. These winds are common here, and airplanes being as flimsy as they are, why increase the risk?”

  “I had heard that the prince was very interested in holding the meeting here. Weather can be a problem wherever you go.” Though truth be told, he was correct. High winds would be a nightmare.

  He grunted then picked up a biscuit from the small tray on the table. “You say that so glibly. Man...and woman”–he shot her a glance–“have only just figured out how to get these things in the air and yet you go about dismissing the risk. Baroness Laroche is here, isn’t she?”

  “Yes! Yes, she is! My idol. She has almost qualified for the first pilot’s license ever issued for a woman!” Tea slopped from her cup into the saucer and she had to steady her hand.

  “Hmph. I know of her. I read the newspapers. She learned to fly in a single-seater airplane while her teacher shouted instructions at her from the ground. She’s already almost died in a crash. I am an engineer. What I build or design, I know backward and forward as to why it works. None of you know why these flying things fly.” He paused and she took the time to digest the obvious dislike he had for flying. Perhaps if he knew better...if he’d felt the exhilaration the way she had?

  “To be honest, I don’t want to see you hurt, Miss Evard.” That rock-steady voice seemed to drive through her like a steam roller, flattening her out until she was thin as paper and he could have blown her away with a single warm breath. He doesn’t want to see me hurt?

  “Tell me, why do you fly?” He popped the biscuit in his mouth and chewed and swallowed it in a few crunches.

  She blinked. Easy question. Here was her element. “Because it thrills me. Because when I fly, I am truly alive. You must come up and fly sometime. Do something new in your life! I dare you, sir!” She thumped the table.

  “Do you?” he said drily.

  Ah, she’d struck a nerve. The piercing look he gave her shrank the very blood in her veins and turned her to ice, until he spared her and sipped more tea. Perhaps flying wasn’t such a good topic. She scrambled through her thoughts, searching for a safer one, and found nothing in the blankness.

  It struck her then how controlled this man was. Not once had he fidgeted or dusted off something from the table or his jacket. He barely had a single useless mannerism. Unlike her. Unable to resist, she brushed a strand of hair from her brow and leaned forward.

  He smiled, startling her. “You have beautiful eyes, Miss Evard, I noticed them earlier.”

  Gosh. She sat back a little. Why say this now? As if to toy with her? They both knew earlier was at the workshop, when he’d kissed her.

  “Um. Thank you, sir, for the compliment.”

  “My pleasure. Might I ask, if you’ve known Jeremy for long?”

  She frowned and picked at an imaginary speck on the tablecloth. “When I was a child in Australia, his family lived on a cattle property near us. We were close friends until I was twelve, then he left for England. He stayed with us a few times in Paris.”

  “I had wondered. He made some mention of you when he heard of your visit.”

  She nodded. “I see.” That broad mouth of his had firm purposeful lips.

  Oh dear, he’d seen her looking. Whatever had happened to men who barely saw if she had bothered to dress at all? Most of them ignored her, charlatan and flamboyant rebel that she was. She was used to being regarded as a lesser social being. Why in hell couldn’t Mr. Meisner do the same?

  But then...in a way, she did like his attention. Below, between her legs, moistened, reminding her of how trapped he’d made her feel in the workshop. Her breaths shortened.

  Slowly, Mr. Meisner put his teacup on the tablecloth, like a chess player declaring checkmate. “Jeremy did speak well of you, though, I recall. He also said you had a wild spirit even as a child.”

  Why does that sound like a condemnation? What nice hands he had. How forcefully, he’d pressed her against the wall, and held her. She blinked, flustered. Why had he missed the sauc
er? Deliberate? Why? Faith frowned.

  “You are terribly transparent in your emotions. I like that in a woman.” He shifted on the chair.

  Mouth open, she struggled for a witty return then picked up her cup for something solid to hang onto. Oh, he’d poked her off course yet again. The man excelled at being unpredictable.

  With a last inscrutable glance in her direction, Mr. Meisner leaned forward. “I must be leaving.”

  She clenched her teacup even tighter, denting her finger on the delicate handle. No. Not yet.

  There was no polite way. Either she said this, or she let him walk away. Clearly he’d decided the rules of society were there to be obeyed.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She sniffed, opened her eyes then looked up. “No. I don’t wish you to leave.”

  His eyes changed from lukewarm to hot.

  The iron of the seat met her back. Oh yes, definitely she was the keeper at the zoo and she’d just offered her own leg, medium-rare, to the lion.

  “Exactly what are you saying, Faith?”

  Heavens, does he want me to put it down in writing? On a dotted line?

  He didn’t move at all. Nothing. No eyebrow moved, no crease appeared on his ever so majestic face.

  The china clinked then rattled as she tried to settle her cup in the middle of the saucer. Did she have the gumption to do this?

  “Please stay.”

  Still nothing.

  “Come to my room.”

  He leaned in. The chair squeaked. “You have no idea what you are playing with here.”

  How did he do this? How? Flying her Bleriot was less nerve wracking. “I don’t?”

  “No. You don’t. I have...different...tastes.”

  Different? She didn’t even know what tastes she had. Where was the fairness in that? He made her ache with some...longing she couldn’t describe, and he’d deny her because of his tastes? She wanted his lips on hers. That much, she knew.

  “I don’t care.” She toyed with the arch of the teacup handle.

  He sat back. “Unnatural tastes, some might say. You don’t understand who I am.”

  The other couple had gone, as had the solitary waiter.

  The chair scraped as she rose. “Come to my room, Mr. Meisner, if you dare.”

  The sound of Mr. Meisner drawing in his breath galvanized her, awakening every nerve. Oh. Yes. That had done it.

  He stood, slowly, unfolding like a colossus. “Give me your key.”

  Chapter 5

  Give him my key? There was an undercurrent to that request that made her hesitate. Leonhardt had his hand out, waiting. Not a request–an order. This was some sort of test and, if she failed, he was going to walk away.

  The steel key lay on her palm, cold and heavy, attached to a pretty cloisonné-enameled medallion. She extended her arm and tilted her palm so the key slipped, clinking, into his hand. Why did she feel as though she’d just handed him a piece of her soul?

  “Thank you.” He nodded. Was that a triumphant glint in his eyes? “Ladies first.”

  It wasn’t too late–not yet. Nothing compelled her to go with him to her room. Leonhardt had said nothing to encourage her, hadn’t put a hand on her or smiled–as if he meant her to understand this was her decision and not his.

  She took the first step, and another, then, with his hands behind his back, he matched her stride as she threaded between the tables.

  Together, they walked to her door, the Oriental carpet underfoot muffling the sound of shoe on floor. Number three hundred and twelve. Mr. Meisner unlocked the door then pushed it open. Not daring to look at him, Faith drew a smooth yet deep breath, and went in.

  The little entryway held a slim cabinet and a silver vase with swans for the handles. Art Nouveau, as was the bedroom beyond. Everything flowed with curves and the shapes of animals and plants. In the center of the wide floor sat the double bed with a shimmering peacock-and-lily quilt that fairly begged one to sprawl upon it. The outline of lilies showed in the cast iron bedhead and curled up the four corners of a chest of drawers. Gold curtains to her right covered a set of French doors that must lead to a balcony.

  The room sang with honeyed hues and electric blue vibrancy. Bracing herself, she turned to find Mr. Meisner had discovered a chaise lounge and sat upon it–one ankle atop the other knee, his trousers sliding up to reveal his sock.

  “Come here, Faith. Please. Sit.” He patted the lounge.

  “I don’t usually invite men... I mean I’ve never...” Oh, Lord. Now she had him in her room, she really wasn’t sure she wanted to get close.

  “I know. Sit here.” He sighed and uncrossed his leg. “I won’t bite. We need to talk.”

  “I think perhaps–” She made as if to sit on the bed.

  “Faith,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Either you come over here and we talk, or I come over there and ravish you on the bed.”

  “Ah.” Only minutes ago, being ravished had seemed a great idea. Admit it. I don’t know what I want.

  Trying to act unaffected by his threat, she went over and sat on the very edge of the lounge. Casually, he wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled her in close to his side.

  “Mr. Meisner!” She stiffened.

  “Stay. And it’s Leonhardt. You wanted me here. In thirty minutes, Mawson will be back and you can order me out if you so wish. Meanwhile, you sit here and keep me warm. That’s my due payment for having to listen to what is going through your pretty head, because this is not my idea.”

  Pretty head! “What? You’re the one who kissed me!” She wriggled but couldn’t get loose, not easily. Besides with his arm around her, tucking her against him...it was so comfortable and this was what she’d wanted, in a way.

  “A kiss?” He nuzzled her ear with his mouth and she heard him inhale. “You smell so nice, sweetheart. I kissed you before because you wanted me to. I’m here for the same reason. Another man would have you on your back on that bed squealing by now.”

  At those words, she froze. His tongue lapped out, circled her earlobe, licked. Wet. Soft, and so surely finding a spot that sent a spark of electricity zipping straight down below. Nice. Too nice. She angled her neck in the hope he’d do more of the same elsewhere.

  He chuckled, kissed once below her ear. “I’ll bet you’ve not even had sex.”

  A blatant, raw question but...no point in lying. “No. I haven’t.”

  “Then why do you want me here? Why the sudden loose morals? Didn’t your mother tell you not to invite strange men to your room?”

  Oh, what a dismal thing to say. Something within her evaporated.

  For a man who’d warned her off and said he had different tastes, Leonhardt was being awfully nice–almost as nice as Jeremy, her pot-of-custard man. Face it. For whatever reason, he was treating her, almost, like a little sister. She wanted...what she’d seen, felt, at the workshop–a man with fire in him, who had excited her like no other.

  She sighed and muttered, “Pot of custard.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. This isn’t what I thought it would be. The way you...” She shook her head. “Never mind.” Yet, when she tried to rise, he held her still. “Mr. Meisner, let go.”

  “Leonhardt. What did you say first?”

  Anger filled her. “Oh! I said pot of custard! You’re just like Jeremy and every other man I ever met. Bland as custard. All right? Now. Let me go.” Exasperated, she turned her head, looked at him, and the room dropped a foot.

  The hardness was back in his eyes. His hand tightened on her waist.

  She flinched.

  “You don’t know what you ask.”

  “I’m sorry.” She shook her head, stared at the floor. “But, I didn’t ask for anything.”

  “Oh. You did. You did.” This time he sighed and she dared to glance at him again. At her waist, his arm had relaxed and his fingers stroked her through the dress. “You’re...like a feast lai
d out before me, Faith. I’d love to eat you all up, though I shouldn’t.”

  The air sizzled. Every breath she took woke another part of her until she thought nothing about him could possibly escape her knowledge. Her eyes drank in the world. Ever so quietly, she moved her hand to rest on his broad thigh.

  “Very well.” He played with a tendril of her hair above her ear. “Thirty minutes. I will show you what I like. You will let me do what I wish. No complaints. No comments from you except, yes, sir or, no, sir. If you tell me to stop, I will, and then we’re done. I’ll leave. Your answer is yes, sir.”

  “Um.” What is this?

  Her thoughts took a moment to catch up. He would show her what he liked–his dangerous-sounding unnatural tastes? If his tastes came from the same place that first kiss came from, she wanted this. Though, on the other hand, giving control to a man seemed wrong and independence was the backbone of her life.

  “One proviso.” Would this make him leave? “No actual, um, sex.”

  After an eyeblink of time he said evenly, “Agreed.”

  She moved her mouth experimentally, brow creasing, imagining saying what he wanted her to, and shrugged.

  “Uh. Yes, sir?”

  What would he do now? Kiss her again? She looked sideways at him, at that sloping nose and those firm wide lips. Being bald suited him–made him look like a man who’d finish any task he began.

  “Stand up.”

  She frowned.

  “Now.” The growl in his voice made her jump. He meant this, didn’t he?

  Untangling herself from his arm, she slid from the lounge to stand before him. The cool satin hem of the Poiret dress flicked at her ankles. When he stood and went behind her, she twisted one hand in the dress at her side.

  “Don’t move, Faith.” The exhalation of his words ruffled her hair. “Put your hand down. Do I scare you?”

  The same question, or near enough, as at the workshop door. She felt his fingers at her chignon, gently removing the long pins. Locks of her hair tumbled to her shoulders, unwinding farther down her back.