British Bad Boys

by Nancy Warren

  The conversation flowed with the wine. From British-American relations to books to new plays in London ’s West End.

  She discovered that George and Maxine were at the stage in their relationship where they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other. A touch here, a steamy glance there. Obviously, those two were deep-down crazy for each other.

  And Meg discovered that Arthur had a sneaky sense of humor and that he was a local chess champ.

  “Do you play?” he asked her.

  “Sometimes. But I’m not very good.”

  “We’ll have to have a game,” he said, and the way he looked at her made her wonder if chess was the game he had in mind.

  And then Maxine brought up the subject of Meg’s writing. “You know, I’ve always fancied writing a book,” said Charles, one of the men.

  “Then you should do it,” she said. She heard this all the time and always wondered why, if they wanted to do it, people didn’t sit down and try. It was like saying, “Oh, I’ve always wanted to speak German,” without ever taking a lesson.

  “Meg writes the most incredible murder mysteries,” Maxine said. “I can never sleep when I’ve got one on the go. Honestly, they’re terrifying.”

  “Don’t you find it difficult to imagine the mind of a killer?” asked Charles’s wife, Nora.

  “Well, yes and no. The thing to remember is that in his or her mind, the killer has no other choice, no option but to kill. He may be insane, but in his mind, it’s the right thing to do. He or she is the hero in their own mind. If I can find a compelling enough reason for what they do, then my villain comes to life.”

  “You sound like you approve of your villains.”

  “Not approve. But they are my favorite characters.” She glanced at Arthur and found him rapt.

  “But a killer? Someone like that would be so evil.”

  Arthur spoke from across the table. “I think every man has it in him to kill.”

  Yes. She’d known he would see it that way, of course.

  “Could you kill a man?” Maxine asked him, her eyes wide. She reached for George’s hand.

  “I have done,” he said matter-of-factly, and Maxine gasped. Meg looked at him and saw the lines harden in his face. His eyes grew suddenly stony.

  “Arthur was in the army,” George said. “That’s different.”

  “Is it?” Arthur asked.

  “Well, of course it is,” George insisted. “You were fighting for your country.”

  “That’s what I was saying. It’s all a question of motive. Am I not right, Meg?”

  “Yes. I think so. People kill for many reasons. Duty to your country, of course, but also revenge, greed, obsessive love.”

  “I don’t think I could kill anybody,” George said, making a face. “All that blood. It would put me off.”

  “What if your home were threatened?” Arthur challenged. “Or Maxine? You’d kill to protect them.”

  The glance Maxine and George shared was intimate and powerful. Oh, yes, she thought. George could act the upper class English twit, but he had a great deal of strength.

  She knew from Max that he’d pretty much given up his career as an architect when his father died suddenly, and he was forced to come home and manage a cash-draining estate decades before he’d anticipated stepping into the earldom. He didn’t complain, though. He was managing to hold everything together, run a huge estate, and build it into a business. That took guts. And drive. Yes, she thought, he was one you could rely on in a tough corner.

  When the evening broke up, Wiggins, as she’d discovered the butler was called, appeared with her bag of shoes. She changed into her flats even as Maxine said, “Why don’t I run you home in the car?”

  The other couples were staying the night, since they lived in different villages quite far away and the wine had been flowing.

  “No. It only took me ten minutes to walk here. I need the air.” She’d understood what Arthur had meant about the cooking when the dessert turned out to be bread pudding.

  “I’ll walk you home,” Arthur said, as she’d somehow known he would. A quiver went through her.

  “It’s not far.”

  “No. But it is dark. Don’t want you tripping on a rabbit hole and ending up like George there.”

  “I don’t know,” George said, having hobbled into the hall with the aid of a cane and Maxine’s arm. “You could come round and keep me company in my infirmity.”

  “Good night, George,” she said, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. She hugged Maxine. “Thanks. This was just what I needed.”

  “Come anytime.”

  Arthur and Meg set off in the direction of her cottage.

  It was surprisingly dark. Well, duh. What had she expected? Streetlights? As though he’d read her mind, Arthur said, “I’ve got a penlight. Let me know if you want me to switch it on. I always find my eyes adjust in a minute or two.”

  “No. It’s fine. There’s some light from the moon.”

  The night was quiet and still. She liked the dark, though she was intensely aware of the man beside her. Once she stumbled over a rock she hadn’t seen and he grabbed her hand to steady her.

  He didn’t let go. She could have pulled away, but she liked the feel of him, the sturdy, capable hand, the warmth of his skin.

  “I bought one of your books today, when I was in town.”

  “You did? I thought Max was going to lend you one.”

  “I decided I’d like to have my own.”

  “Well, thank you. Which book did you choose?”

  “Tying Up Loose Ends, I think it’s called.”

  The book that first put her on the Times list, but she didn’t tell him that. “Well, let me know what you think of it.”

  “I will.”

  After that, they didn’t talk much.

  When they reached her cottage, he still didn’t talk, merely turned her to him and took her mouth.

  Okay, so she’d guessed it was coming, had spent most of the short walk wondering how she felt about it and whether she’d stop him if he tried to kiss her. Now she knew that he wouldn’t give her time to stop him and how she felt about it was indescribable. It was even better this time. He was so warm, so strong, his mouth both taking and giving.

  Drugging pleasure began to overtake her senses. It had been so long since she’d felt like this. Excited at the possibilities of a man, wanting, with quiet desperation, to be with him. Held by him, taken by him. She began to shiver and he moved closer, so her back was against the stone wall and his warm body pressed against her.

  Her hands were in his hair, wonderful, thick, luxurious hair. Her mouth open on his, wanting, giving, taking. She felt him hard against her belly and experienced a purring sense of her own power. And also a stabbing sense of regret.

  She couldn’t do this, she reminded herself. Her book. Her book was her priority. If and when she finished the novel, then she could think about indulging herself like this. Not until then.

  So she tipped her head back out of kissing range and looked up into that dark, intent face. “What was that about?” She’d meant to sound sophisticated and slightly amused. A woman who got hit on all the time on every continent. Instead she sounded husky and, even to her own ears, like a total goner.

  “I’m interested. I’m letting you know.”

  “Telling me with words would be too mundane?”

  “Words are your world. I’m more a man of action.” Oh, man of action. Oh, aphrodisiac to her senses. She’d always gone for the cerebral types, but there was something about a man who tackled the world in a physical way that appealed to her on the most basic level. His words from dinner came back to her. He’d kill to protect those he loved. Every other man she’d been with had been of the pen-is-mightier-than-the-sword persuasion, mostly, she suspected, because their swordplay was so minimal.

  Arthur was a man who would make her feel safe. When she crawled into bed, terrified of the fruits of her own imagination, she could s
ee herself burrowing against his warm skin, his arms coming round her in comfort.

  Then she gave herself a mental slap. What was she doing? Always imagining things. Arthur ran a pub. Was obviously single and probably took a fancy to every unattached woman who rented the cottage. How convenient.

  She shook her head with mingled irritation and regret. “I’m here to work. I really don’t have time for…anything personal.”

  “That’s a shame.” He ran his warm, leathery palm down the side of her neck so she wanted to press against it. Rub at him like a kitten.

  “I have to finish this book. I can’t afford any distractions.”

  “I’m glad I distract you,” he said, a thread of amusement running through his voice.

  “You are?”

  “I wouldn’t want to think I was the only one feeling…distracted.”

  “Well, it was a very nice evening,” she said, easing away.

  “Did you not want me to come in, then, and check under the bed for monsters?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll tell you what. You see that lighted window, across the way there?”

  “Yes.” There was only one lighted window. It wasn’t that tough to spot.

  “That’s my house.”

  “You don’t live over the pub?” For some reason, she was surprised.

  “No. I live in that house there. And anytime you see my light, you can call me.”

  “I told you-”

  “I know. But even a hard-working writer needs a distraction now and then.”

  Before she could respond, he was kissing her again, fast and addicting, like a shot of heroin before he headed away, so sure she’d soon be pining for more that he didn’t bother to say good-bye or even glance back.

  Well. If he thought she was going to run after him, he was going to be seriously disappointed.

  He was a dark shadow, and then he was gone, blending into the night, so only the odd scuffling sound allowed her to chart his progress.

  “Go on in, now,” he said from the direction of the stile, and she was annoyed with herself that she’d so obviously been staring after him in the blackness.

  She didn’t say a word but opened the door and slipped inside.

  Right. For two days now she’d played. It was time to get back to work. She licked her lips, tasting his kisses, and was flooded suddenly with a wanting so sharp she closed her eyes against it.

  Chapter Six

  Arthur felt his heart pound and his innards clench. When he turned the page he noticed his fingertip was damp with sweat. No wonder Meg Stanton was afraid of her own books. She wasn’t the only one.

  Knowing the author herself was a stone’s throw away, as needful of him as he was of her, made him half crazy with the wanting. Reading her book was a poor substitute for going to bed with her, but he’d thought it might at least lull him to sleep. Instead, she’d not only left him aroused and unsatisfied, but now she was scaring the wits out of him.

  One more chapter, and then he’d put the damn thing down, he promised himself.

  When the phone rang he jumped, jarred out of his terrified skin. Fool, he admonished himself, glancing at the clock. Two A.M. Who’d be calling at…

  He glanced out the window on his way to pick up the ringing phone and noted that his wasn’t the only light on in the area. Meg’s upstairs light was glowing like a beacon.

  A grin tugged at his mouth as he identified himself on the phone.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?” It was Meg, as he’d known it would be, but still, the sound of her voice acted like stroking fingers on his skin.

  “Wake me? You kept me awake, woman.”

  “You were thinking about me?”

  “Aye, I was. But worse, I started reading your book. Bloodcurdling stuff.”

  “I know,” she said with smug pride.

  “Are you working this late, then?” He rubbed a hand across his chest. Hoping that she wanted more than a chat.

  “I was. Now”-she blew out a breath-“I’m too scared to sleep.”

  “Well, that’s two of us.” He grinned broadly and settled back on the bed. “What do you think we might do about that?”

  “Do?” She sounded startled. “I don’t want to do anything. I mean, I wanted to explain. I was kind of abrupt earlier.”

  The stiff paper of the book jacket crinkled as he opened the cover, revealing a photo of the author. It was a professional photo of Meg looking full on at the camera, in a black dress, smiling slightly. She wore pearl earrings and her hair was suitably restrained. Looking at that photo acted on him the way graphic nude photos in a men’s magazine might.

  “You were telling me you don’t have time for me, with your book to write. I understood.”

  “Yes, but I think I was a bit arrogant.”

  Not arrogant, he thought, but hasty. They could have been tangling the sheets and enjoying each other at this moment instead of talking on the phone. Obviously, she was feeling as aroused and deeply unsatisfied as he.

  She sighed. “In the daytime it’s so peaceful here. But at night, it’s so black out there. Not a light for miles.”

  “It’s perfectly safe.” He soothed her automatically, hearing the trace of nerves.

  “Oh, I know. It’s not that. It just feels…well, kind of lonely.”

  “It can be.”

  “How do you stand it?”

  “It was peace I was after when I came here. The army is never peaceful. And believe me, you are never lonely.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” she said softly.

  “Well, never alone at any rate.” He shifted. “What are you doing at this moment?”

  “I’m trying to get comfortable in bed.”

  “Ah.” He looked at the formal publicity photo and smiled to himself, imagining her in bed. In what? Flannel nightie? A sexy scrap of lace and silk?

  “What are you wearing?”

  There was a pause. He heard her uncertain intake of breath. “You’re not planning on having phone sex with me, are you?”

  It wasn’t easy to keep his laugh inside his chest. She was adorable. “I hadn’t thought about it. Would you like to have phone sex?

  A longer pause. He could tell she was thinking about it as clearly as he knew what her answer would be. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Of course not. That won’t keep the monsters under the bed.”

  “No,” she said softly, “it won’t.”

  He let the silence lengthen just long enough. “Do you want me to come over, then?”

  “I thought you were scared, too.”

  “Terrified. I’ll run all the way.”

  She laughed. He loved the sound of her laugh. It was so unexpected. For all her ladylike ways, the laugh was low and sexy.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

  “I’m not sure I am, either.” And he found it was true.

  “I could make you some coffee if you came over,” she said.

  “But that would keep us awake.”

  “Warm milk?”

  “That’s a long way to run in the dark for a bit of milk.”

  “Maybe there will be something to go with it.”

  “Like what?”

  “A chocolate cookie. I mean biscuit.”

  He laughed aloud at that. Well, there were biscuits and there were cookies. “I’m on my way.”

  He didn’t run. He savored the night air and the quiet sounds of the countryside asleep. The big house slept. The flats and houses of the village slept. He looked about himself and saw no light but hers. And it drew him the way a fire draws a cold man.

  When he got to the door she was waiting for him. With her face scrubbed free of makeup and her hair down around her shoulders, she looked young. She wore a pale blue terry cloth robe and a pair of sheepskin slippers. All very practical, not a bit sexy. And he found himself growing frantic for the taste of her skin, anxious to ease her out of the robe and toss the slippers across the
room.

  However, he wasn’t the sort of man to begin ravishing a woman in the wee hours when she was alone in her house, unless he was certain she wanted him to ravish her.

  Her breath shuddered slightly as she drew it in. Her eyes were wide and alluring. Her lips were slightly parted.

  “Lead the way, then,” he said, his voice a husky whisper of sound.

  She took his hand, turned and led him, not to the kitchen, but up the stairs. Her palm was so warm it was almost feverish, and he felt the fine trembling within her. As she walked up ahead of him, he knew her body was unfettered by underwear, and he was as aroused as though she wore nothing at all.

  Soon, he thought, she would.

  He would tease her about her warm milk later. For now the atmosphere was serious.

  He knew the room well, of course, had helped the delivery men bring in the new bed at the end of the summer season. But with her things scattered about, it seemed mysterious, very feminine, and all hers. He smelled the subtle scent of her skin and her powders and women’s lotions and things. There were some bottles neatly lined up on top of the bookcase, her clothes hanging regimented in the wardrobe where the door was ajar.

  “I’m glad you rang,” he said.

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  So he held her. First he simply held her, feeling the shape of her press against him, the smell of her hair as he buried his face in it.

  “You smell so good,” he murmured.

  She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him even closer. “Thank you for coming.”

  Then he took her mouth, because he couldn’t help himself. She clung to him, kissing him the way she had earlier, like a drowning woman.

  She made tiny purring sounds in her throat. He doubted she was even aware of them but they drove him half mad. He wanted to rip away her clothing and throw himself onto her, into her, and the effort at civilized control had sweat breaking out on his forehead.

  He skimmed his hands over her breasts, smiling against her lips when she quivered with reaction. Over her belly, and then he found the cord of her robe. It came undone with one pull, but instead of pushing it off her shoulders and letting it fall, he traced the opening, followed the lines of the open robe, so he touched silk, warmed by her skin, and felt the resilience of her flesh beneath. He cupped her breasts through the sheer fabric and felt them jump to life under his palms, the nipples teasing him. He continued up, over her shoulders, this time knocking the robe free, so it fell in defeat to the floor.