British Bad Boys

by Nancy Warren

  “Americans aren’t big on darts,” she said.

  “Ah. It’s quite simple, really. Shall I show you?”

  Oh, what the hell, she decided. It wasn’t like she’d get any useful work done with an earl who was half sloshed anyway. So she relaxed, and said, “Okay.”

  “Right. We’ll have a bit of a practice go, just to get you on your feet.”

  George walked to the dartboard and retrieved his dart, then presented her with three. “Now,” he explained, standing so close to her she could feel the heat off his body, smell the beer on his breath, and see a darker spot on his chin where he’d missed a patch while shaving. She smiled. He was sexy-the kind of sexy that crossed continents, time zones, language barriers, probably centuries.

  She felt the sizzle when his shirt-white, with pale blue stripes-touched her. She glanced up sharply, but if he was aware of the current of heat flowing between them, his blue eyes didn’t show it. If anything, he seemed obsessed by the dartboard.

  He took her hand, put a dart in it. Closed her fingers around the shaft and then closed his hand around hers. Whew. The heat flowing from his fingers into hers was amazing. Scary almost.

  “Ready?” he asked softly, into her ear.

  “I’m not sure,” she answered truthfully.

  This didn’t happen to her. Not ever. She met all kinds of hot guys, all over the world. They were intellectuals, professors, adventurers, tycoons. The kinds of men a person made documentaries about were not clerks and bureaucrats. But of all the superachievers she’d met, none had affected her so…personally.

  Until now. And let’s face it, she reminded herself, George’s main claim to fame was that five hundred years ago, one of his ancestors had backed the right horse in the Catholic versus Protestant wars. It’s not like he’d crossed the Atlantic on a surfboard while trying out his new cell phone technology, or climbed Everest, written plays, or discovered the genome. No. He was a throwback to a world that no longer existed-hanging onto a derelict estate by his dirt-free fingernails. What was so special about George Hartley that she should feel her skin shiver when he brushed close to her, or her nostrils flare when she drew in the scent of him?

  Nothing, she reminded herself again. Nothing.

  Still, when he pulled her arm back, murmuring instructions into her ear, she did react. A shiver so subtle she hoped he didn’t notice it wafted over her. Her nipples tightened.

  She wanted to close her eyes and lean back, lean into him, into his warmth and solidity. Naturally, she didn’t. Instead, when he asked if she was ready, she said she was. She’d never thrown a dart with someone before. It was surprisingly fun.

  Together they tossed a dart that would have taken off the guffawing guy’s ear if he hadn’t ducked at the last second.

  “Oops,” she said.

  “Never mind,” George said softly. “Next time.”

  Chapter Five

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” she said quietly. They were sitting, and somehow she’d ended up beside his lordship, close enough that she could speak softly and not be overheard.

  “Nonsense. Busy day, that’s all.”

  “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” And if he was, she was totally up shit creek. She was going to have to talk him back into his initial enthusiasm, whatever she had to do.

  “About the documentary?” He blew out a breath. “I don’t know. I’m thirty-two years old today and I’m acting like a man twice my age, tied to this falling-down wreck.”

  “Why do you stay?”

  “It’s my home. My duty.”

  “And you love it.”

  He looked at her ruefully. “It’s hard to explain, really. It grows on you. Today was bloody frustrating, though. An injured man, the bank breathing down my neck.” He sipped from a pint that was clearly not his first. “There are days I really do want to chuck it all. Maybe I’ve got more of my mother in me than I realized. She hated it, you know. Spent as much time on your side of the pond as she could. Made my father miserable. You’ll hate it, too, being from Los Angeles and all that sunshine.”

  “I don’t hate it. It’s a wonderful place. We may have sunshine in L.A. but we don’t have all this history.” Oh, no. His mother had hated England? One of the topics she’d wanted to go over with him was the romantic story of the eighteenth earl and his American bride. She didn’t want their story to be one of bitter misery. Where was the fairy tale? Damn.

  “What about you? No wife? Girlfriend?” Of course, she already knew he didn’t have a wife, but she didn’t want him to know she’d been researching his private life. And she was curious about the girlfriend.

  He shook his head. “I had a girlfriend. In London, but she didn’t fancy it here. Too far from everything. She ended up wearing wellies more than high heels and a scrubby old jumper instead of designer things.” He shrugged. “She chose London over me. Well, who wouldn’t?”

  Maxine privately thought a lot of women wouldn’t.

  “And how about you?” He said, suddenly emerging from his gloomy state and giving her a curious glance. “Is there a significant other waiting at home?”

  “No.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “I work. A lot. I’m out of town, out of the country.” She ran the tip of her finger around her beer mug, frowning. “I’m not home long enough to commit to a houseplant.”

  “The rolling stone gathers no African Violet.”

  She smiled dutifully, but glancing at him she could see he understood.

  “What about a family? Children?”

  “Sure, I want them. But not yet.”

  Between rounds of darts, when it became clear that she had a natural aptitude as well as a strong competitive instinct, she managed to interview him about his mother. It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared.

  “Oh, the match was love at first sight, I understand,” George said. “Father was over visiting America and saw my mother at her debutante ball. They were married within six months.”

  “What happened?”

  “She loved my father, but hated England. It was all right for the first few years, and then she had my sister and me, so that kept her busy, of course. But as time went on, she began to hate England more than she loved my father. She visited her home in Philadelphia as often as she could and for longer and longer periods. I rarely saw her in the last few years unless I flew to America to visit her. She died over there. Pneumonia. Very sudden.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Father was like a broken man after he lost her. Funny, that. It hadn’t been a very successful marriage, but in his way, he was devoted to her. He died last year, heart attack.”

  “A broken heart,” she said softly.

  He made a short, bitter sound. “Well, I think it broke much earlier.”

  Privately, she thought his mother had been too young and possibly too impressed with the title. And, if George took after his father, there was the whole sex appeal force to contend with. She’d probably married the man before she realized she didn’t really love him at all.

  “Same again, George and Maxine? My round,” Barney said.

  They exchanged a glance and then Max said, “No, thanks. I’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

  “Right, yeah. Me, too,” said George, rising. She was surprised his buddies didn’t try to talk him into staying on his birthday until she saw the leer on one face, and caught a wink from another.

  Men weren’t any different here, that was for sure. So she and George had spent some time having a private conversation. It was business. How could they not see that?

  Everyone in the pub knew George, of course. And the final well wishes for his birthday ranged from loud and drunken to quiet and respectful. When they emerged into the quiet, damp night, he said, “Thanks for coming. It was great having you there. I know my friends enjoyed meeting you.”

  She snorted. “Why do I think they are right now laying bets to see whether you get me into bed?”

/>   He glanced at her sharply, that unruly and utterly charming twinkle in his eye. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because they’re guys. We walked out together.”

  “Ah, but how would they know who won?”

  “Well, you’d tell-”

  He shook his head.

  She glanced at his profile and noticed his nose wasn’t entirely straight. Even the tiny jog was sexy. “Come on. You don’t have to lie to me.”

  “I’m not. I don’t talk about my intimate life to my friends.” It sounded unbelievably pompous when he said it, but she saw from his face that it was true.

  “Why? Is that some aristocratic imperative?”

  “No. I may be old-fashioned but I still believe a gentleman doesn’t tell.”

  “My God. You’re as archaic as your castle.”

  “I probably sound like a total prat.”

  “No. I like that you won’t blab. Not,” she hastened to add, “that there’s going to be anything to blab about.”

  “Of course not.” By this time they’d crossed the street, entered the castle grounds, and were strolling up the path. The tree-lined walk, the castle rising from its surroundings like a fairy tale, the moon streaked with clouds like a coal miner’s face.

  “Why would anything happen between us?”

  “Exactly. This is a purely professional relationship.”

  “It’s not as though we’re attracted to one another, is it?” His voice was a caress.

  “Absolutely not.” She felt as though they were the only two people in the world. It was so quiet here, so romantic. They walked close enough that they were almost, but not quite, touching. “There will be nothing to talk about.”

  “Not so much as a single kiss under the moonlight,” he said, turning her slowly to face him. Oh, he was gorgeous. Sexy and desirable even as he remained as steeped in history and tradition as his property. He was broad of shoulder and slim of hip, exactly as a man should be, and when her arms went around him, she felt the muscles and the firmness, the warmth and gentle teasing that always seemed to be a part of him. “Unless you were to take pity on me.”

  “Well. Maybe a birthday kiss,” she said softly, raising her face. He brought his mouth down to cover hers and she felt the heat of him. He tasted like beer and hot sexy Brit, but he felt even better. Strong, dependable. Someone she could trust.

  And suddenly a semi-innocent birthday kiss was heading way out of control and very far from innocent. He held her against him, pulling her off the road and under one of the hefty oaks that had stood here so long Henry VIII had probably carved his initials in the trunks.

  When they stopped moving, she realized George was leaning against the heavy trunk of a tree, and she was leaning on him, pressed against him so her breasts flattened against his chest, their bellies brushed as they breathed, and then their hips jammed together as though their bodies had decided to get together long before their minds had caught up. Hers, anyway.

  It had been a while for her, she decided. That must have been why she was having such an incredible reaction to a kiss. It was as though he’d ignited something wild in her and she wanted to climb all over him, take him, right here, out in the open. Well, it wasn’t as though they wouldn’t have privacy. The tree was like a tent covering them and they were probably equally as far from the house as they were from the road.

  Probably he’d planned it that way. Not that she cared. At the moment she was blind and deaf to her usual common sense. He kept kissing her, deep, wonderful kisses that made her pulse everywhere with needs she’d either forgotten she owned or had buried in work.

  When she pulled away to drag in a breath, he moved down, kissing her neck, that wonderful sensitive spot beneath her ear. Above her was a dark, green canopy of leaves. Her feet were a little cool from standing on damp grass, but it was the only part of her that was cool. She let her eyes close as she took in all the amazing pleasure points dancing for joy throughout her body.

  Letting herself go was so rare, and so wonderful, that she ignored all the very good reasons why she-the documentary filmmaker-and he-the subject of the film-should not be getting quite so up close and personal. For once, she let herself follow her instincts rather than her list of shoulds and shouldn’ts.

  “You taste wonderful,” he mumbled against her skin.

  “Probably like the inside of a pub.”

  “No. Very American. Very…clean.”

  “You’re crazy,” she said, running her hands over his shoulders and upper back, letting her fingers sink into the gorgeous mop of hair that would cost a couple of hundred pounds in a top London salon to style this casually rumpled, and that she suspected, in his case, came naturally.

  She gasped as she felt his questing fingers brush the tops of her breasts, above her bra. Gasped with the shock of finding him there, so subtle she’d barely noticed him sneaking under her clothing, and because it felt so very good. She could feel the tingle and knew she’d come out in goose bumps, and not because she was cold.

  When he cupped her breast, a tiny moan of pleasure escaped her. The night muttered to itself, and the leaves above said shhhh.

  George of the nimble fingers had her jacket open, her shirt open, and her bra pushed up and out of the way. Then he leaned her back a little so he could reach her breasts with his mouth.

  Oh, God. The night air was cool and damp, his mouth so hot and wet, the licking and sucking motions setting her on fire. She heard panting and knew it was coming from her. Wanted all of him. To see him, touch him, taste him.

  Her hands delved under his sweater, but the little touches of skin weren’t enough. She wanted more.

  “I want-” she began, and then a breeze blew through their tree, setting the dark leaves above her trembling almost as badly as she was. And suddenly, a shower of water droplets rained down on her naked breasts.

  She squeaked with the shock. George laughed and began to lick up the drops, but the literal cold shower also served as a metaphoric one and she pushed him away.

  “What are we doing?” she asked in a horrified whisper.

  There was a tiny moment of silence. Mortified on her part, and, she thought, slightly amused on his. “I believe you were giving me a good-night kiss,” he reminded her, as though they’d done nothing more than peck each other on the cheek.

  “It was a birthday kiss,” she corrected. “And it’s over.”

  She started trying to shove her buttons back together but made such a mess of it that he helped her.

  They were mostly silent the rest of the walk up to the castle. She stole a quick sideways glance at his profile, but he looked the same as he always did. As though nothing had happened.

  Right, she reminded herself. Because nothing had happened.

  Still, she was going to have to face him in the morning, and try not to remember that his tongue had been wrapped around her nipples, making her moan with delight. Just before they reached the great oak front door, she put a hand on his sleeve.

  He glanced down at her, brows slightly raised.

  “That should never have happened,” she said. “It was totally unprofessional.”

  He waited, but she didn’t have anything to add, so he opened the huge door and waited for her to pass in front of him.

  She knew they both had to climb the great staircase to reach their bedrooms and she couldn’t stand the idea of going upstairs at the same time. She’d either keep babbling or drag him into her room. Two very bad ideas, so she said, “I think I left my laptop in the dining room. I should go get it.”

  “Right. I’ll say good night, then.” He turned to the stairs, then back to her. “I won’t say I’m sorry, because I’m not. But consider the matter forgotten.”

  And with that he started up the stairs with the easy grace of a man not still trembling from frustrated desire.

  Irritation spurted through her. Was she the only one?

  Chapter Six

  Of course she wasn’t going to forge
t what had happened. Her overheated, oversensitive skin reminded her as she walked to the dining room. Her laptop wasn’t in there; of course, it was already in her room.

  She waited a minute to make sure George was tucked away in his own room, then she made her way up the quiet stairs to hers.

  But she was wide awake and edgy. She spent a couple of minutes making some notes about her pub scene idea. She brushed her teeth and hair, washed up, changed into her pajamas, and stuck her feet into the sheepskin slippers she was glad she’d brought along. The castle was often cold. Even the parts they bothered to try and keep warm. The heating bills for this place must have been astronomical.

  The book she’d picked up in the estate gift shop with the scintillating title History of Hart House was as un-put-downable as she’d imagined. Great for falling asleep, except that tonight it wasn’t. She read about the number of local rocks quarried and how long the outer walls had taken to build and didn’t even feel sleepy. In fact, it was a waste of time reading since she barely took in a word.

  Usually she got more exercise. That was probably why she wasn’t sleepy. Tomorrow she’d go for a run. Of course, it wasn’t lack of exercise but being so tantalizingly close to making love and then backing off that had her body feeling so twitchy and irritable.

  Yoga. Mind over body. Mental and spiritual calmness. That’s what she needed.

  She didn’t love running, but it was exercise that she could do anywhere, so she’d become a runner by necessity. Yoga was by choice. She had a few DVDs she could play on her laptop, or she could do a simple routine of her own. She chose the latter, kicking off her slippers. All she wanted was a series of calming, sleep-inducing poses. Hauling herself out of bed, she worked through some nice, easy stretching. Her hamstrings were particularly tight, she noticed, so she went into a wall stretch. She debated putting her bare foot on the historic and intricate paneling. Her foot was perfectly clean, but it seemed wrong somehow, so she found a new pair of athletic socks and pulled them on. Of course, that made her foot slippery and she’d no sooner got herself in position and stretched in toward the wall when her heel slipped, catching on a knobby bit of wood. She wobbled on her standing foot and would have fallen if she hadn’t grabbed one of the carved acorns. She tried to steady herself, but the acorn moved.