“It’s fine,” Sloan said rather abruptly, without really reassuring her. His brusqueness reminded her uncomfortably that money was still a troubling issue between them.
The governor’s residence was within walking distance of the hotel, merely two blocks away. The sumptuous decor might have been imposing to many Westerners, with its gilt-and-crystal embellishments and lush carpets and rich brocade furnishings, but the display of wealth was a familiar world to Heather, one her mother’s upper-crust family had enjoyed. The social setting was familiar as well, a milieu she had been thoroughly trained for. Attending formal dinners with high-powered politicians and wealthy magnates, offering charming, gracious conversation while remaining self-effacing, had been her mother’s forte. It was a role she might have played had she wed Evan Randolf....
That unwelcome thought crossed Heather’s mind as she went through the reception line on her husband’s arm. Yet she didn’t miss this stifling life in the least, she reflected. Nor would she exchange the riches of this mansion for her present circumstances, despite her uncertain status as Mrs. Sloan McCord.
She could feel Sloan’s eyes on her as she met the portly Governor Payne and his attractive wife, Ruth, and again when they joined a small group of gentlemen who were discussing the fate of a legislative bill in the last congressional session. When Sloan had introduced those he knew, Heather accepted a tall-stemmed glass of champagne from a passing waiter and slipped into her new role as a political wife.
She was eminently successful. Sloan watched Heather enchant the company, torn between admiration for her social graces and a vague sense of guilt. The duchess was in her element here, radiating elegance and charm and aristocratic breeding. Yet by marrying her, he’d taken her away from her rightful world—the lavish social sphere of teas and balls and soirees. She deserved to be gowned in silk and diamonds, rather than the calico and crystal beads he could afford.
He was obliged to her for relinquishing that life so willingly, yet he didn’t like the obligation. Nor did he like the comparisons his mind insisted on making. In this setting at least, Heather outshone his late wife by miles. He couldn’t imagine Doe campaigning for him or holding court in a gathering of wealthy white gentlemen—or aiding the local schoolteacher’s journalistic efforts, for that matter.
Twice since the July Fourth celebration, Sloan had come home to find Heather and Vernon with their heads together, involved in a spirited discussion regarding the principles of democracy or the ramifications of a particular turn of phrase. Though intimate, there was nothing in the least sexual about their encounters. Yet on a primal level he didn’t want to explore, Sloan felt himself prodded by male possessiveness. It riled him to realize the schoolteacher was providing the duchess the intellectual stimulation she seemed to crave.
Sloan was almost grateful when one of the other guests interrupted his reflections and claimed his attention. Yet his senses remained keenly attuned to Heather behind him, so that he was aware when a tall, raven-haired man came up to greet her.
“Why, if it isn’t Miss Heather Ashford!”
“Richard!” Extending her hand, she acknowledged the newcomer warmly, and with the intimate familiarity of old friends, allowed him to draw her aside from the other guests. “Whatever are you doing here?”
“Covering the campaign. I’m with the Denver Post now. I could ask the same of you.”
“I’m here with my husband. I’m no longer Miss Ashford.”
“Of course… I’d heard you married a Westerner,” Richard said with a doleful smile. “Evan Randolf told me the unhappy news when I was in St. Louis a few months ago. It was a great disappointment to a number of people, me included. I had hoped you would wait for me.”
She laughed. “You did no such thing. You were far too busy breaking scores of female hearts to notice me.”
Her laughter brushed across Sloan’s ears like sweet music, and sent a shaft of jealousy arrowing through him—a response which only intensified as he strained to hear the man’s next words.
“Actually,” Richard said in a low voice, “Evan asked me to keep an eye out for you. It’s not my place to say, I know, but I believe he suffered a genuine disappointment at your loss. He wanted me to discover how you’re faring in your marriage, and whether you regretted your choice of husbands yet.”
Sloan thought the cheerfulness of her tone dimmed a degree. “You may report that I am faring quite well, and that I have no regrets whatever.”
It was then that Heather looked around and spied him. His jaw hardening reflexively, Sloan went to join her, and she slipped her arm through his loyally.
“Richard, allow me introduce my husband, Sloan McCord.”
“Richard Weld,” the man said, shaking Sloan’s hand. “Reporter and part-time editor for the Post. I worked with Heather’s father years ago. In fact, Charles Ashford taught me much of what I know about newspapering.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sloan replied, forcing a note of sincerity into his tone.
“I’ve heard of you, McCord. Shaking things up down your way, are you? Word is, you have Quinn Lovell on the run.”
“Not yet, but I’m doing my level best.”
Weld chuckled. “I’d like to write an article about you two for my paper—cattle baron versus mining king. Human interest and all that.”
“Why, that would be marvelous, Richard,” Heather answered for him.
At her apparent delight, Sloan felt another spike of jealousy shoot through him, but then she turned to glance up at him with a smile softer than silk. That lovely smile trapped his breath deep in his chest and had an inappropriate effect in another part of his body as well: he felt a hardening in his loins which he found difficult to ignore.
“I’ll ride down your way…” Weld was saying. “Let me think… Would week after next do? That would best fit my schedule.”
“That will do fine,” he replied too tersely.
Weld turned back to Heather, and she began to question him about his career since they’d last met. Eventually Sloan left them to converse while he did his duty and mingled with the company, but he would have preferred to remain with them. In fact, what he wanted was to be alone with Heather. He hadn’t cared for the reminder of the men in her past, most particularly Evan Randolf.
The evening, while politically worthwhile, seemed interminable. He found himself counting the minutes until they could politely take their leave—through a half-dozen courses and then coffee afterward.
At last, though, the guests began to disperse, and Sloan escaped the stifling atmosphere with his wife in tow. As they stepped out into the moon-drenched night, he loosened his string tie and exhaled a sigh of relief.
“Was it so very bad?” Heather asked sympathetically.
“I’d rather ride herd in a cattle stampede than attend another one of those,” Sloan admitted.
Her lips curved in amusement. “I’m afraid if you’re elected, you will have to attend more than a few of those functions.”
“Maybe I won’t run after all.”
“You don’t really mean that.”
“No.”
Her faint, sweet scent teased him as they strolled along the street, lit now and then by gas lamps. From somewhere—a highbrowed dance hall, perhaps—the tinkling sound of a piano escaped to faintly serenade them.
“There was only one thing that made the evening bearable,” Sloan added in a low voice.
“Oh?”
A groove deepened in his hard cheek as he half-smiled at her. “You. Watching you in that fancy gown. Wondering what you were wearing underneath. All through dinner, the only thing on my mind was stripping it off you and seeing what I could find underneath.”
“Indeed?”
“Are you wearing drawers, duchess?”
“Perhaps you should discover for yourself.”
She was flirting with him, he realized, his pulse quickening. The thought of following her advice interfered with his breathing and made his loins
grow heavy. The duchess was standing there calm and cool as a nun, while all he could think about was bringing her to passion. He wanted to completely shatter her control, wanted her digging her nails into his back while she screamed with pleasure....
Abruptly Sloan pulled her into the shadow of a crab apple tree. His arms came around her to hold her, lightly, possessively.
“Sloan, I didn’t mean here…” Heather protested a bit breathlessly.
His mouth hovered over the sweet temptation of her lips. “Then where?” Preventing her answer, he brought his mouth down on hers. His tongue danced, dueling with hers, making her feel his urgent desire.
Heather repressed a moan, feeling her breasts tighten and swell. With effort, she placed a restraining hand on his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, feel his heat. “Perhaps we should conduct this discussion in private.”
Drawing back, he gave her a slow wicked smile. In the light of the street lamp she caught the flare of undisguised lust in his eyes. Heat rose inside her, inflaming the tips of her breasts, arousing a heavy ache in her lower body.
Silently they turned and continued the short distance to their hotel. As they passed through the lobby and ascended the stairs to the second floor, it was all Heather could do to keep from touching him. Anticipation made her feel hot and restless, while her blood moved heavily through her veins. When they reached their room, Sloan would take her… She bit her lower lip, remembering the feel of that sleek, hard body moving over her, within her.
The hotel room was white with moonlight when they entered, the damask-covered bed illuminated by a faint glow. Sloan didn’t light a lamp, but turned on her, pressing Heather back against the door. His urgent kiss nearly took her breath away, while his hands came up to cover her swelling breasts beneath the stiff corset.
“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he murmured against her lips.
“Is it all you want to do?” she challenged, her mood reckless.
“Hell no, that’s not all… Take off your clothes for me,” he ordered.
“I shall need help with my gown.”
He obliged, making short work of the task, letting the elegant creation fall to the floor in a whisper of silk. But he merely watched as she finished undressing. Shoes and stockings went, followed by camisole and corset and lacy underdrawers. Finally Heather stood only in her chemise and the pearl choker.
“Now your hair,” Sloan said, watching her through narrowed eyes.
She pulled out the pins one by one with unsteady fingers, tossing them on the dressing table. Then she shook her head till her long, golden hair swirled about her shoulders.
She smiled then, and Sloan damned near stopped breathing. With that seductive smile, so sensual and lovely, Heather was pure temptress. His dream lover in the flesh.
Possessiveness surged inside him, and for once he didn’t try to fight or deny it. He felt wild. He wanted to take her hard and fast… no, he wanted to draw out the moment till they were both crazy with need.
He wanted to make love to her slowly, kissing every hollow and pulse. He wanted to tangle his fingers in that cloud of pale hair and savor the taste of her silken skin. He wanted to see those tresses spread across his pillow as Heather lay waiting for him, her lush graceful body bare, her eyes filled with passion....
A deep ache settled in his loins. He intended to make her pay for teasing him so.
Rapidly he stripped off his coat and tie and shirt. When he was naked to the waist, he moved toward her purposefully, the image of virile strength, his bare torso strongly muscled, his bronzed arms hard with sinew. His potent energy was so strong, she could feel it wrap around her before he even touched her.
Her body tight with anticipation, Heather lifted her face to his. She thought Sloan would kiss her, but instead he put his hands lightly on her shoulders and turned her slowly to face the full-length mirror. Watching in the glass while he stood behind her, he drew down the neckline of her chemise to expose her proud, thrusting breasts.
The cool, white light was unforgiving, as was Sloan’s hard assessment of her body; her skin shone as pale and luminous as the pearls at her throat.
Heather drew a shaky breath. With her breasts scandalously bare, she felt deliciously sinful and desirable. It was all she could do to remain still as the strong bronzed fingers rose to cup her ivory flesh. She was scaldingly aware of Sloan’s near-nakedness, of his heat at her back, of his hard thighs grazing her soft bottom.
His splayed fingers pushed the mounded swells upward, exaggerating their already lush abundance, squeezing lightly. “So beautiful,” he murmured.
His eyes were smoky and warm with desire, mesmerizing her. With excruciating slowness, he brushed the taunting crests with his thumbs, making her bite back a whimper at the sensitiveness of her nipples.
“You like that, duchess?” His voice, male and sensual, washed over her. “You like it when I play with your tits? Answer me.”
“Yes … I like it.” Weakly she leaned back against him as he fondled her, watching her own seduction. His long, callused fingers tugged on the distended peaks until her face flushed, until arousal seared through her, hot and thick.
“I like it too. I get hard every time I even think of touching you,” Sloan admitted, his voice dark and husky.
“Are you hard now?” she whispered in return, shocking herself.
His eyes flared, bright and intense in the moonlight. “Why don’t you find out?” When she hesitated, he murmured in her ear, “I’m tired of doing all the work.”
Her senses trembling with need, she turned to face him. Her shaking fingers fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, but she managed to open them. Boldly then, her hand slid inside the parted fabric and closed over him, her palm soft and warm.
His eyes half shut, Sloan gave a soft groan. “Take it out.”
Willingly she obeyed. His erection was long and hot and throbbing. Heather shivered uncontrollably as wanting flamed inside her. She could only think of how Sloan would feel when he plunged into her, how his splendid arousal would fill her.
Bewitched, every nerve in her body on edge, she caressed him, stroking the hard, hot tumescence.
“You keep that up,” he rasped, “and I’ll spend in your hand.”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
His smoldering gaze met hers with a promise of burning pleasure, but to her surprise he pulled back. “I would. I’ve got something else in mind for tonight.”
“What?”
“Punishment. You’re going to pay for teasing me all evening.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Sure you did, duchess. I had to sit through that interminable meal while you laughed and flirted with all your dinner partners and ignored me.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“But you paid me no attention. You’re lucky I didn’t slip under the table and come up under your skirts.” He grinned. “That might have been interesting.”
She watched him questioningly as Sloan moved to the damask wing chair beyond the dressing table. Sitting down, he tugged off the rest of his clothing and settled back, naked and relaxed, his upthrusting manhood blatantly masculine between his parted, sinewed thighs.
“Remember how I taught you to ride me?”
“Yes.” The word was a hoarse whisper.
“Why don’t you come here, and we’ll see how much you’ve learned?”
His dark, husky voice beckoned to her. Her gaze fixed on his rigid, straining arousal, Heather moved slowly toward him, drawn by some invisible, irresistible force.
He flicked the hem of her chemise. “Take this off. I want you naked.”
Without a word, Heather drew the undergarment over her head and let it drop to the floor. His hot eyes traveled over her slowly, boldly appraising.
Slipping an arm around her waist then, Sloan pulled her down to sit sideways on his lap. She could feel his hard length against her buttocks; he was all warm, taut muscle against her softness. Yet he remain
ed motionless.
She twisted on his lap, seeking to nestle her breasts, so naked and sensitive, in the crisp golden hairs of his chest. He skimmed his fingertips down her arms, delicately stroking.
“Sloan,” she murmured.
“Yes?”
“Don’t torture me.”
“Why not?”
His thumbs slid upward and brushed the underside of her breasts, sending sparks shooting through her.
“Please…”
“What do you want, darlin’?” He lightly pinched her flushed, sensitized nipples.
Heather gasped, arching her slender back, taut breasts thrusting out, wanting him, aching for him. Her soft flesh clamored for release. She was fully, painfully ready for him—and Sloan knew it. Yet he refused to do anything about it.
“You… I want you.”
“You can have me … eventually. When you’re hungry enough.”
His fingers slid upward, sinking deep into her tangled mane, but instead of kissing her, he merely nibbled at her lips, his tongue tracing the parted outline.
A streaking heat shuddered through her. She wanted to scream at his prolonged method of arousal. She needed him to put an end to the restless, hot longing.
“Sloan … I am hungry…”
“Not enough. Not nearly enough.”
Her breath caught in her throat when he reached down and trailed a hand along the inside of one leg. Eagerly, her bare, moon-bathed thighs fell open to accommodate his touch. Unhurriedly his fingers raked downward through the soft triangle of curls. She was wet silk between her legs, her body already anticipating the pleasure of his possession. His lean fingers glided easily over the flushed, feminine lips, seeking and caressing.
Heather bit back a moan when he found the tiny sensitive nub of female flesh, quivering with the throbbing urgency spiraling up from his expert touch.
“You see, duchess, I want you begging me.”
He rubbed her sex with a featherlight pressure, making her tremble. Her eyes closing, she let her head fall back, her mouth parted in small, panting breaths. Yet his raw-silk voice aroused her as much as his exquisite stroking.
The Heart Breaker Page 21