Virgin Seduction

by Kathleen Creighton

  He turned toward her and leaned an elbow on the balustrade, relaxed now, and casually smoking. "Some parts of it are," he drawled, "and some aren't." He was thinking about the West Texas oil country, and parts of the Panhandle that were so flat you had the feeling if you got to running too fast you'd run right off the edge of the world. Even such a thing as wide open spaces could be carried too far.

  Maybe because his thoughts were back home in Texas and he was feeling a little bit overconfident, it was a few seconds before he noticed the intensity of Leila's silence. By the time he did, and snapped his attention back into focus on her, it was too late. He thought it must feel something like this, the first moment after stepping into quicksand-a disquieting, sinking sensation, but not yet sure whether he ought to panic or not.

  When had she come to be standing so close to him? The sea breeze carried her scent to him, sweet and faintly spicy. The word "exotic" came to his mind. But then, everything about her was exotic. Was that why she seemed so exciting to him? The fact that she was different from every other woman he'd ever met?

  Don't even think about it. She's absolutely off-limits.

  Or was it simply that she was forbidden fruit? Off-limits. Inaccessible. Except that, at this moment, at least, he knew she was entirely accessible…to him.

  To think like that was insane. And insanely dangerous. He was dealing with a tiger out of her cage, nothing less.

  Except that she didn't look much like a tiger at the moment, or anything even remotely dangerous. She looked soft and warm and sweet, more like ripe summer than forbidden fruit. Torchlight touched off golden sparks in the ornaments in her hair and in her eyes. Gazing into them, he felt again the peculiar sensation of not-quite-dizziness, as if his world, his center of gravity, had tilted on its axis. Clutching for something commonplace and familiar, he took a quick, desperate puff of his ail-but-forgotten cheroot.

  Her whisper came like an extension of the breeze…or his own sigh. For one brief moment he wasn't certain whether it was her voice he was hearing, or merely the echoes of his own thoughts.

  "Do you want to kiss me, Mr. Gallagher?"

  Cade almost swallowed his cigar. Do you want to kiss we?

  What on God's green earth could he say to that? Jolted cruelly back to reality, his mind whirred like a computer through countless impossibilities, distilled finally down to two: Lie and tell her he didn't, which would be unconscionably cruel; or tell her the truth, which would most likely land him in more trouble than he cared to think about.

  It was probably gut instinct that made him do neither of those things, but instead try to laugh his way out of it. To make light of it. A joke.

  Tossing his cigar over the balustrade with an exaggerated, almost violent motion, he snaked one arm around her waist. The other he hooked across her back at shoulder-blade height, and laying her against it, arched his body over hers in broad parody of some old silent movie clip he'd seen recently, he couldn't recall exactly where-The Academy Awards, maybe?-about an Arab sheik in flowing robes and headdress seducing a wild-eyed maiden in a tassel-draped tent.

  "Kees you?" he intoned in a ludicrous and excruciatingly awful mishmash of several different accents-he had no idea where he'd gotten that from. "Oh-ho-ho, mademoiselle…"

  Startled eyes gazed up at him. He felt a sensation of falling, as if the ground beneath his feet had dropped away.

  What now? He had no idea what he was supposed to say next. That was the trouble with those silent movies, he thought. They were silent Short on dialogue, long on action. And he was pretty sure he did know what action was supposed to come next.

  Don't do that. You can't. You 'd be crazy to do that.

  Then came the smallest of sounds…the soft rush of an exhalation. Her breath was sweet and faintly wine-scented, so close he felt the stirring of it on his own skin. So near to his…her lips parted. Slowly, slowly her eyes closed.

  Lord help me, he thought, and lowered his mouth to hers.

  He had an impression of warmth and softness, of sweetness and innocence. Of purity. It occurred to him to wonder whether his might even be the first lips to ever have touched hers, and the thought both excited and shamed him. Is that what it's all about? he wondered. Is that why I want her so much? Nothing to do with exotic beauty and forbidden fruit, only the thirst of the conqueror for undefiled lands to claim as his own.

  His thirst was in danger of blossoming into fullblown lust.

  He felt the flutterings of her instinctive resistance. If only he hadn't! If only she'd responded openly, brazenly to his kiss, he might have been able to keep it as he'd intended it to be-blatantly mocking-and end it there. But that tiny faltering, that faint gasp of virginal hesitation… It stirred some primitive masculine response deep within him, so that her hesitation affected him not as a warning, but as a challenge. And an embrace meant only to lighten the mood and diffuse dangerous emotions became instead a seduction.

  Instead of releasing her, his fingers stroked sensuous circles over the tightened muscles in her back and waist. Instead of pulling away from her, he gently absorbed her lips' quiverings and delicately soothed them with the warmth of his own mouth. And felt her relax…melt into his embrace…as he'd somehow known she would.

  He shifted her slightly, to a more comfortable, more natural position, and felt her body align with his as if it had been custom-made for that purpose, a soft and supple warmth. He lightly sipped her wine-flavored mouth, and only then discovered-too late-that he was famished for the unique taste of her, that he craved her with every fiber of his being.

  Tiny lightbursts of warning exploded inside his brain. Reserves of strength summoned from God knew where made it possible for him to tear his mouth from hers-for a moment, no more. He released a sound like the moaning of wind in old trees and buried his face in the graceful curve of her neck. Then…gently, carefully at first, he brushed his lips against the skin there, velvety soft and sweetly scented as rose petals.

  The sound she made was breathy and frightened, but he felt the uniquely feminine, seeking arch of her body, and the hot rush of blood through his in automatic masculine response. With a growl of triumph, unthinking he brought his mouth back to hers. Still gently but inexorably now as water finding its own course, his mouth began to follow the shapes and contours of hers…his tongue found its way to the soft inside. She whimpered.

  How can this be? Leila thought. I cannot breathe, my heart is racing so. I feel as if I aw drowning… dying… and yet I cannot stop myself-don't want to stop myself-or him. If am dying, then this must be heaven, because I don't want it to stop… ever.

  Her skin felt hot and prickly all over, from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet. And yet…she shivered. Her head-her heart-felt light as air, lighter than butterflies and wind-carried chaff, yet her body felt weighted, too heavy to move.

  His body was a hard, unyielding weight against her breasts, breasts that had become so sensitive she could feel every ridge and fold of his jacket, the warp and woof of the cloth. Even the rub of her own clothing seemed an intolerable abrasion.

  Panting, she tore her mouth free of his and arched her throat, offering that to him instead. And how had she known to do such a thing? Even as she wondered, she felt the press of his lips against the pounding of her pulse, and mounting pressure…and terrifying weakness.

  And then the pressure was gone. From a great distance came a raw, anguished sound, and the weight lifted from her breasts. Her throat and lips felt cold, and throbbed with her racing pulse. Swamped with dizziness, afraid she might fall, she clung with desperate fingers to the arms that held her and fearfully opened her eyes. Eyes stared down into hers…eyes that burned with a golden gleam…eyes that burned her soul like fire.

  "What-" She meant to whisper, but it was a tiny squeak, like the mew of a kitten.

  His voice was so ragged she could hardly understand him. "Princess-I'm sorry. I can't do this. I can't…"

  When she felt his arms shift, deprivi
ng her of their support, she gasped and caught at his sleeves. His fingers bit into the flesh of her arms as, grim-faced, he held her away from him, then with great care stood her upright and steadied her like a precariously balanced statue. Once more his eyes lashed across her, and she flinched as though from the sting of a whip.

  "Dammit," he fiercely muttered, and then, as he turned, added with soft regret, "Another time, maybe… another place."

  And he was gone.

  Left alone, Leila stood where she was, trembling, hardly daring to move, until the scrape of footsteps on stone had been swallowed up in the shusshing of waves and the whisper of wind.

  Foolish…foolish… .The whispers mocked her. Serves you right. This is what happens to pushy women.

  But…what had happened, exactly?

  Hugging herself, Leila whirled to face the glittering indigo vastness of sky and sea. She was shivering still, no longer with shock, but a strange, fierce excitement. Cade Gallagher had kissed her! Kissed her in a way she was quite certain no man should ever kiss a woman who was not his wife.

  And that she had allowed it…? Fear and guilt added layers to her excitement, but did not banish it. That she had allowed such a thing to happen was unpardonable.

  She knew she should feel frightened, terrified, ashamed. So why was she smiling? Smiling, lightheaded, and absolutely giddy with excitement?

  Another time… another place.

  That was what he had said. She remembered his exact words. Understanding came; certainty settled around her, comforting as a cashmere shawl.

  * * *

  Back in his own room at last, Cade slipped out of his tux jacket with a grateful sigh. One helluva day, he thought as he tossed the jacket onto the cushions of the surprisingly trendy brown-and-white striped sofa. And thank God it was over. Tomorrow he'd be back in familiar territory, home country. The world of business was where he belonged, where he felt comfortable. It was what he was good at-doing deals, making plans, working out compromises. All this formal socializing, rubbing elbows with royalty-that wasn't his style. Oh, he knew a certain amount of that stuff was unavoidable from time to time, but he was always glad when it was time to roll up his sleeves and get down to the real work, down and dirty sometimes, rough as a bare-knuckle brawl, but that was what he liked about it-the excitement of the game. That, and the satisfaction that came with winning.

  Anyway, for sheer stress, all that was a piece of cake compared to what he'd just been through. He'd rather spend three days in cutthroat negotiations than three hours at a formal reception-and in this case, formal was putting it mildly. Not that it hadn't been impressive as hell, the palace ballroom lit up like Christmas, the food delicious, the music tolerable, if you went in for that sort of thing. And he'd never seen so many purple sashes and gold medals in one place in all his life, or so many beautiful people-especially the women. Everywhere he looked was a feast for a man's eyes. But there was something about it he couldn't quite put his finger on. Undercurrents.

  Undercurrents. Yeah, he thought, that about described it, all right. Underneath all the bright lights and highbrow music, the dazzling smiles and graceful bows, elegant tuxes and designer gowns in rainbow colors swirled together like ribbons in a washing machine…under all that, like a subterranean river, ran a ribbon of tension, a hum of intrigue he could feel in his bones. He wondered whether it was something going on between these Tamiri people and their nearest neighbors, the Montebellans, or if it was just standard operating procedure for royal courts. Not unlike what goes on every day in Washington, D.C., he thought, or for that matter, any state capitol back home.

  This thing with Leila Kamal, though…that was another story. That particular intrigue was entirely personal, and the tension a steel rod running straight down the back of his neck. It had made for one helluva nerve-wracking evening, trying to avoid eye contact-or any sort of contact whatsoever-with the woman, while being at the same time aware of her with every nerve in his body. Nervewracking…intense…but now, thank God, it was over. Finally, he could relax.

  With another gusty exhalation, he peeled off his necktie and headed for the bathroom. There, while his fingers dealt with the studs on his shirt, his eyes gazed dispassionately back at him from the ornately framed mirror above the sink.

  You were damned lucky, Gallagher.

  Oh yeah. He knew just how lucky he'd been. He'd played with fire and somehow managed not to get burned.

  That narrow brush with disaster had left him shaken, but he'd managed to put it behind him. All he needed now was a good night's sleep, and tomorrow some mutually advantageous wheeling and dealing with the old sheik, and he'd be himself again.

  Stripping off his shirt, he briefly considered another shower. But he was tired, just wanted to hit the sack, so he turned on the tap above the sink instead. He was hunched over the bowl, cupped hands filling up with water to splash over his face, when he heard a light tapping on his chamber door.

  What now? One of the servants, probably, they were always bringing him something-towels or fruit or herbal tea-though it seemed pretty late for that. Frowning, he turned off the faucet, grabbed a towel and went to open the door.

  When he saw who was standing there, he wondered why he didn't have a heart attack on the spot. At the very least, he was pretty sure he knew now what it might feel like to be speared in the belly with an icicle.

  Chapter 4

  "Princess-" It gusted from him before he could think. "What're you-why-" And while he was sputtering like that she slipped past him and into his room.

  He had a fleeting impression of a light, spicy scent, hair that flowed down her back like an ebony river, a gown made of something pale and floaty-she'd glow in the dark like a candle!

  He'd never felt more exposed, or more cognizant of the danger he was in. If anyone happened to walk by…if she so much as raised her voice, cried out, Cade's goose was as good as cooked. Even in this part of the world he doubted they still executed people for such transgressions, but at the very least, any hopes he had of doing a deal with the Tamari people would be out the window, and he might even be out-literally- himself. As in, given the bum's rush. Bounced unceremoniously out the door on his butt. Right now, this minute, in the middle of the night.

  Plus, Elena was never going to forgive him-never.

  With icy dread crawling down his spine, he gave his face an absentminded mop with the towel, glanced quickly up and down the corridor, then silently pulled the door closed. He felt as if the door of a trap had just slammed shut behind him.

  Leila moved as if through a wall of suffocating heat-holding her breath, feeling her cheeks burn and sweat bloom on her forehead. Knowing instinctively the source of the heat, she kept her face turned away from him-as if that would help!

  She reached with her hand to touch the back of the sofa and leaned against it a little, testing it for support, then brushed her fingers over the fabric to hide the fact that she'd done so. She heard the door close behind her and silence fill the room. In it the thump and swish of her pulse sounded loud as the storm surf striking the rocks below the cliffs.

  "Princess-" His voice was harsh.

  And though she didn't want to, she flinched. Still, as she turned she knew her smile would appear bright and determined. "I thought you were going to call me Leila."

  Breath gusted from him, as if he'd been holding it in too long. "For God's sake, what are you doing here?"

  But she could not answer. Suddenly she had no moisture in her mouth; she could not seem to move her tongue. Nor her eyes, either, for somehow they had become stuck to the naked masculine chest in front of her, and not even for her life could she tear them away. She did not understand-she had seen men's chests and torsos before…hadn't she? In pictures, at the very least. But if she had, it did not seem so. To her this felt like the first time she had ever laid eyes on such a sight… .ever.

  "Look…Leila-" He took a step toward her, face darkened, both hands upraised and fingers tensed, as thoug
h he wanted to grasp her with them.

  Her breath caught and her heart gave a frightened leap. Even she could see that it was not a welcoming gesture. But not a violent one, either. She thought he seemed more distraught than angry, and her fear was not for her physical safety. He would not harm her, she was certain of that.

  Just as she was certain now that she had made a terrible mistake in judgment. Somehow, because of the vast difference in their cultures, probably, she had misunderstood him. She knew that he had not meant what she had thought he meant. Not at all.

  I shouldn 't have come.

  All of that passed through Leila's mind in the time it took her to utter a single dismayed gasp. In the next moment, memory-sensual, visceral, overwhelming-slammed her with the force of a physical blow. Hard lips, smooth and gentle lips… liquid warmth, breath smelling of tobacco, trembling pressure and pounding pulse…

  Her body felt cold, and her legs as if they would not support her weight. She heard a rushing sound in her ears. But I had to come…I had to. What else could I do?

  She took one step forward…and into a void.

  Swearing vehemently, Cade caught her as her knees buckled. Then, since there didn't seem to be anything else to do, he scooped her up in his arms. This is insane. Ludicrous.

  While casting frantically about for a place to deposit his unconscious burden, he caught a glimpse of himself and her in the gilt-framed mirror above the tile and marble fireplace-heaving breasts in a filmy gown against the backdrop of his own naked, sweaty chest…her pale throat a taut and graceful curve…raven hair cascading over his arms like a waterfall…Damn, he thought with a snort that was part irony, part disgust and most of all dismay. Look like the cover of one of those romance novels women are always reading.

  He'd about decided to lay his swooning princess on the sofa when he felt her arms come to twine around his neck. He barely had time to register that fact before her hair began to stir against his skin, an incredible, unimaginable softness.