Sexual Hunger

by Melissa MacNeal

  Jude sensed he was about to be hoodwinked, as surely as this medium had waved his magic wand to ingratiate himself with Meriweather Golding. Yet something about the plan teased at him—and he certainly craved amusement, now that his brother was gone. “Such illusions would be a challenge to produce,” he mused, “but I can manipulate the negatives…burn in the images you want when I make the prints.”

  Would he be sorry he’d agreed to this idea? Jude ducked beneath the black cape to gaze through his camera lens. Polinsky cut a fine figure in his natty dark jacket and white trousers. It was the man’s face that demanded any observer’s attention, however: the profile of his nose, and the way his riveting blue eyes shone on either side of it beneath thick, distinctive eyebrows, gave him a secretive look set off by a squared chin with an arresting cleft. His peppery hair had gone to salt at the temples—a look women supposedly found attractive. Especially women who were old enough to be Polinsky’s mother, but didn’t want to admit it.

  YOUR mother isn’t old enough to be his mother!

  Jude shut out this distracting inner voice to adjust the camera’s shutter. Something about this little deception felt good, if only because Polinsky believed he was calling the shots. “Nice smile now! And then hold it steady…” he encouraged as he held out the shutter bulb. “Imagine your…lady of the moment seated in that chair—yes, that’s the look we want!”

  He squeezed the bulb, sensing immediately that this picture was precisely what Polinsky desired. “Perfect! I’ll print these with Mrs. Golding in the chair, and Mrs. Grumbaugh, and—”

  “Perhaps more of the ladies should sit for a portrait, so no one feels…left out later,” Polinsky suggested furtively. “Meanwhile, I’d like a photograph of only my face, to print on my showbills for upcoming performances, and to advertise my services as a medium. I’ve been in London just a few short weeks, but it seems a promising place to conduct business.”

  Jude’s stomach tightened. Would this presumptuous man use these trumped-up prints as gifts? Or to entice women to seek his services in the spiritual realm? Or—more interesting yet—would the bogus photos become bait so others would invite him to stay in their homes, as Mrs. Golding had? It only made sense that Polinsky plied a more lucrative trade among women who’d lost their men…which begged the question of what sort of trade he was actually in.

  “Now—if you could move your camera closer, for a shot of my face alone,” the magician suggested. He sat in the chair then, angling himself so the sunlight shone on half of his face, while the farther side remained shadowed.

  Jude paused. This man was no stranger to the rules of good photography, nor to the sheer presence he exuded as he lifted his chin and gazed directly into the camera lens. He looked imperious and virile and—

  Seductive. Omnipotent. Thank God he’s not making eyes at Maria.

  And why wasn’t he? Maria Palladino was far and away the most arresting woman here today; a natural target for a shyster, too, because she’d endured a wedding gone awry and still had no idea where her fiancé was. Yet the man who sat before him, gazing through the camera lens as though to read Jude’s thoughts, presumed to flirt with his mother—a well-married woman! It was time to broach that subject, while he and Polinsky were alone.

  “Hold that expression,” Jude instructed. For a moment he felt tempted to stand with the shutter bulb extended for long, long moments—making this visitor dance to his tune! But that would only alert the medium to other tricks he wanted to play while they had no witnesses. “All right…chin up just a bit—yes! Fabulous!” Jude exclaimed as he caught the shot.

  He came out from under the cape then, bracing himself for a conversation about this man’s feelings for his mother. “You know, Polinsky, I’ve got to wonder why you pursue my—”

  “One more request!” The medium glanced toward the house. Stepped closer to Jude. Spoke in a lower voice. “You’re set up to take those ladies’ portraits, so rather than go inside—” Polinsky’s gaze lingered on the back windows, as though to ascertain what each and every woman in the parlor might be doing. He then turned his back to the house, and damned if he didn’t fumble with his fly buttons. “If you can be quick about it, I’d like a novelty shot—for calling cards of the randiest, dandiest sort! You see, I’m not the only one who fancies having his photograph made!”

  Jude gaped. The man beside him had unfastened his trousers and reached inside them to scoop out—

  “Quick, man! Before they come out to see what we’re doing!” Polinsky rasped. “Get this picture!”

  Too stunned to protest, Jude removed the camera from its tripod. He balanced it instead on the small table beside the wicker chair, then knelt to focus on his subject—and again his jaw dropped. While Polinsky wasn’t a tall man, the cock jutting from between his legs was the biggest, thickest erection Jude had ever seen. No wonder Mrs. Golding looked so happy these days! This middle-aged medium was a large! And in the time it had taken Jude to reposition himself, Polinsky had slipped a jeweled ring over the head of his member and was stroking it into position at the root. It glimmered there with garnets and emeralds, like a Christmas gift that kept giving all year long: an invitation to experience extreme sexual hunger and then to satisfy it in a big way.

  Jude swallowed hard. How must such an appendage feel, inside a woman? He hoped Maria never saw Polinsky’s equipment, for she would surely find him and his twin lacking. “You must hold still,” he insisted. “No hand movements! No shifting of your weight.”

  “Can you get it all in the picture?”

  Jude bit back a retort: Polinsky’s ego was every bit as oversized as his…pole. “I’ll do my job and you do yours,” he muttered. He squeezed the bulb, thinking how very sexual that simple act seemed in light of what he was photographing. “All right! We’re finished.”

  Polinsky chuckled low in his throat. “No, Mr. Darington. We’re just getting started.”

  And what did he mean by that? Holding the camera’s sides, Jude straightened to his full height, aware of how his backside had been sticking out. This conversation—this whole scenario—suddenly smacked of something he wanted no part of. Before he thought carefully, he blurted, “While we’re on the subject, I’ll thank you to keep that thing away from my mother!”

  The medium—the very upstanding medium—kept one hand on his member as he studied Jude with a guarded expression. “I think you’d better apologize! Or no—just stay the hell away from that subject altogether. Your mother’s mature enough to do as she pleases, without her son’s permission!”

  “Tell that to my father!”

  Polinsky smirked. “I don’t need your permission, either, nor will I ask for it. Now—” He pulled up his pants and then fastened the buttons over the bulge in his fly. “If you’ll have trouble maintaining a professional confidentiality about the business we’re transacting, I’ll pay you for those negatives this minute. And we’ll be done with it.”

  There was no going back—and no denying he’d just gotten caught in this quick-witted magician’s web…sucked in with the charisma Maria had mentioned. No doubt Polinsky had waved the same devious wand of words to insinuate himself into Meriweather Golding’s good graces. Which meant he was living in London as a perpetual guest, fawning his way into schemes and séances that would earn him a princely sum, at the expense of the dear old victims he swindled: lonely women who bloomed again in the sunshine of his sexual attention.

  So why is he seducing your mother?

  It was a question that would only land him in deeper trouble. And when Jude saw his sister coming around the side of the house, looking coyly over her shoulder, the chance to challenge Yosef Polinsky disappeared. “You’ll have your prints by week’s end,” he said tersely. “I’ll deliver them to Mrs. Golding’s, along with an invoice.”

  Polinsky pulled a money clip from his pocket and peeled away several bills. “I believe in paying before services are rendered, Mr. Darington. I know you’ll deliver superb photograph
s.”

  Jude stuffed the money into his jacket, following Jemma with his gaze. Her blond hair was tied back at the crown in a large ribbon that matched her green print dress, and with the rest of her curls spilling down over her shoulders she looked very sweet and girlish—until he realized she was leading some poor fool astray. But who was here, at this tea party?

  “Hah! You see!” Polinsky murmured. “Even your little sister knows her power and how to use it. You could be marrying Maria Palladino, to become the envy of every man hereabouts, if you’d simply take what she’s offering. Everyone but you realizes that!” With a chortle, the Russian smoothed his lapels. “I’m going inside now for a glass of punch. You’ll have more sitters before the afternoon passes.”

  Jude nearly bit off his lip to restrain his anger. The nerve of that bastard, insinuating he should fill the vacancy Jason had left in Maria’s life! As though neither he nor Maria saw anything wrong with that! Only an indecent—

  Polinsky stopped at the back door to speak to someone before he went inside. When the magician’s gaze wandered to where Jemma had perched on a bench at the far end of the garden, Jude sensed fate and advantageous timing had once again played into the magician’s hands. He did not expect to see Quentin McCallum lingering on the stoop, exchanging gazes with his little sister, once Polinsky stepped inside.

  And why was his brother’s butler flirting with his sister?

  And why wouldn’t he? Everyone else is a bit old for him, aren’t they?

  Even that voice inside his head was playing devil’s advocate, damn it! Jemma was clearly as engaged in this game of cat and mouse as Quentin, so it wasn’t as though Jason’s servant had acted out of turn—even though he’d overstepped the line separating employers and their staff.

  Are you going to step in as your sister’s social conscience, too? You didn’t accomplish much when you acted on your mother’s behalf.

  Jude started toward Jemma, and then thought better of it. Why did he feel compelled to fix the problems women caused themselves? It was a fool’s game, believing he could correct the missteps of every female who snapped up the bait men tossed them.

  And when his sister stood up, trotted toward Quentin with open arms, and then launched herself at the butler, he had his answer. At least McCallum had the decency to look startled before he caught Jemma in the kiss she planted on his lips. When her laughter tinkled like a little bell on the breeze, Jude almost felt sorry for the slender fellow who’d just been ensnared: Quentin would bear the blame if Lord or Lady Darington learned of this indiscretion.

  Indiscretion? It’s a kiss, for chrissakes! Are you so desperate for affection you begrudge everyone around you?

  There was no winning this inner war, just as there was no backing away from the job he’d taken as Polinsky’s private photographer. Or the photographer of Polinsky’s privates.

  Sighing, Jude repositioned his camera atop its tripod. The trip-trap of dainty heels on the walk warned him a woman was coming, and he turned with a smile that felt pasted on. “Hello, Mrs. Farquar. Has the card game already broken up?”

  “Oh my, no!” Helena replied with a roll of her eyes. “I’m such a poor player I’ve already eliminated myself, so I thought I’d beg the favor of a photograph—if you have the time, of course! It’s been years since I had the inclination, or the occasion, to have my portrait made!”

  Already he saw that shine in her eyes…the hopefulness of a girl standing at the toy store window. He didn’t need to ask who’d put it there. “Of course,” he said, gesturing toward the white wicker chair. “It’s a privilege to capture your likeness in Mother’s garden today. She’ll be so pleased you wanted this memento of her party. Now: chin up…yes, with your shoulders back…like that…”

  17

  Maria rolled over, aware she was dreaming…drifting between wakefulness and not wanting the dream to end. She saw eyes. Eyes peering from beneath a pirate’s bandanna, as though a man—was it Jason?—watched her from the window.

  She hugged her pillow. It wasn’t nearly time to get up, yet a tingling at the back of her neck suggested she was being watched. Her body tightened even as she tried not to move—just in case this sensation was not a dream! If the interloper thought she was awake, he might take advantage of her…might slip into her room and out of his clothes and then beneath the sheet she clung to…to discover she was naked. Waiting.

  No, longing.

  But for whom?

  As the question floated like a cloud across her mind, Maria again tried to determine whom she saw beneath that rakish bandanna: the logical choice was Jason, since he so loved to don a pirate’s props. Yet this man felt different. More predatory, because he was hiding his body from her mental view. And despite the warning bells that jangled her nerves as she lay absolutely still in the semidarkness, she wished the streetlight would illuminate his face rather than the shadowy furnishings of her room.

  Maria! Come to me! I need you, my love!

  She wanted that to be Jason’s voice, yet this summons sounded out of rhythm and rhyme with the way he spoke to her. Did she dare answer back, even in the silence of her dream? She inhaled slowly, wavering again between wakefulness and falling more deeply into the dream.

  I know you’re awake, lovely lady. And I know you wait for me…naked and ravenous.

  She swallowed. Her limbs stiffened from holding so still. But worse, she began to pulse lightly, all over her body—gooseflesh popping up—and felt a teasing tension between her legs. Exhaling between the sheets, Maria searched her mental image of the man again. His eyes danced with knowing she was aware of him, and he raised up enough that she could see his entire face: the squared jaw, made softer by a rough mustache and whiskered grin; the lean contour of his profile as he smiled at her.

  I need you as badly as you need me, Maria. Open yourself! Let me in!

  She nearly spasmed: what was it about this voice that made her do his bidding? He sounded so familiar, but how did he know she’d worn nothing to bed? Did he also know how the sheets teased at her skin? How the sound of her breathing belied her rising excitement? This was shameless—mindless—yet as her nipples rasped against the linens, Maria ached for the man who spoke so mysteriously, so intimately, to her. Was he casting a spell, or was she attracting his attentions somehow? Unwittingly inviting him to take control?

  You’re wet. I can smell your desire—your need, Maria.

  A whimper escaped her. Damn him, why didn’t he reveal himself?

  You don’t need to know who I am. But if it makes my presence more…permissable, then I can be whomever you choose, the low baritone continued. But do choose, and soon, milady. Don’t keep me waiting!

  How had her hand slipped between her knees? If this intruder knew she was nude, he knew what she was about to do to herself—

  Oh yes, and I intend to watch. And then take my turn.

  Maria twitched. Closed her eyes tighter, and gave in. As her fingers found her downy mound and then ventured into the slick crevice beneath it, she sighed into her pillow. The pirate—he was Jason, and yet he wasn’t—stood behind her now, watching as the bedclothes shifted and whispered in the dimness. His pants hit the floor. He fumbled with his shirt buttons.

  Randy little witch. I’ve got so much more for you than a slender finger. Here—

  He curled his body around hers, lifted her upper leg, and entered her with a deep thrust. Her moan filled the room as he filled her, with a cock so long and thick she felt stretched to the limit. Yet deeper he plunged with each thrust, relentlessly claiming her as his own without her encouragement or permission. He wrapped his arms around her, held her captive and continued to seek his pleasure.

  Maria…Maria…

  “Yes,” she murmured, appalled that she’d given herself to this unknown lover so freely, yet amazed at how he instinctively knew her body’s wishes. Her hips writhed and the bed creaked in time with his thrusting, until the spark he’d ignited suddenly flared. Maria cried out, nee
ding to thrash yet unable to break free from her imaginary lover’s possessive arms. He bucked against her back, squeezing her tighter as his cock dove into her wet depths.

  With a final gasp, he convulsed, taking her with him. A torrent of warmth filled her, and even as she feared he’d already gotten her with child, her body refused to release him. Maria curled inward and then thrust back against him in a final, wild implosion that drove her over the edge of a mindless chasm.

  Again she drifted, not wanting the dream to end—for in a dream she could have Jason, or any man she wanted, whenever she needed release. As her body relaxed, her breathing took on the same rhythm as his. “Please,” she pleaded, “you must tell me who you—”

  “It’s Quentin, milady. You’re to meet Lady Darington and Jemma at the dressmaker’s today, remember?”

  Maria’s eyes flew open as she clutched the coverlet around her body. The butler who leaned over her bed, wearing a furtive grin, was very real indeed. What had he seen? Or heard? Had Quentin tricked his way into her dream by donning Jason’s pirate bandanna and eye patch from her nightstand drawer?

  His expression said he knew exactly what she’d been doing. And he’d probably watched most of it.

  “What are you—this is outrageous!” she wheezed. “Why isn’t Mrs. Booth waking me—”

  The butler’s eyes remained fixed on hers. “She’s indisposed.”

  And what on earth did that mean? Maria blinked away the remnants of her dream, yet her body still tingled in the most intimate places. Yes, she was wet. And the liquid oozing from between her legs felt like more than her own, as though a real lover had shot his seed.