by Cherry Adair
“Garrett Thorne, sixth Earl of Kilgetty. My great-great—” He paused and gave her a wry smile. “Many greats back. The story is he had two wives, and two mistresses. A pair in town and the other at his country estate.”
She narrowed her eyes at the portrait. “Yes, I can see the exhaustion on his face.” Smiling, she noted, “You don’t look remotely alike.”
“Your refreshments, sir. His Lordship will join you in half an hour.” Roberts placed a silver tray containing a gorgeous silver coffeepot and paper-thin china cup, a carafe of soda and a glass, and a plate of cookies on a side table before bowing himself out.
“I’m surprised it isn’t two hours.” Thorne poured her soda into the glass. Using the silver tongs, he chose two delicate, lacey cookies and placed them on the china plate. Isis could’ve eaten a horse along with the cookies, but she politely took her drink and plate and went to sit gingerly on a slippery powder blue brocade sofa with crocodile feet.
If it were her sofa—which it could never be, because it was quite hideous—she’d paint its toenails fire engine red. She carefully put the plate of buttery cookies on a nearby side table. The fabric would probably stain just by one’s thinking about eating a cookie while seated on it.
Thorne stood beside the massive Carrara marble fireplace, filled with scentless white roses and Queen Anne’s lace. How on earth could he exude sex appeal while holding a teacup with little red flowers on it? He’d propped his simple black cane to the side of the fireplace and stood with his feet a little apart.
Isis wondered how such an unbending man could make her think of sex all the time. Not just sex, but hot, messy sex, sweaty-skin and twisted-sheets sex. Resting her palm on her throat she felt her rapid heartbeat, caused by just looking at him and imagining…
He’s not the One, she reminded herself. She suspected Thorne would be quite happy to take her to bed. And she was pretty sure the experience would be mind-boggling.
Too bad she wasn’t willing to risk sleeping with him and losing her heart to a man who she doubted had commitment on his mind.
Safer not to complicate their relationship and risk him not helping her on her quest.
Even though he was wreaking havoc on her senses, and firing her imagination, she’d lust in private and put on her game face for the duration.
“Why would he make you wait so long?”
“He’s sure to be thrilled to see I’m back.”
The sarcasm dripping from his tone made it clear the comment was facetious. She took a sip of her drink, then held the glass between her hands on her lap. She was in no position to judge father-child relationships, but it seemed he and Daddy Dearest didn’t see eye to eye. “I’ll take a wild leap here and say you don’t get along.”
He picked up a small jade elephant, then returned it to the end of a line of five others in descending size on the mantel. “I was the Great Disappointment.”
She looked at him over the rim of the cut crystal glass housing her humble Coke. “No siblings to disperse the brunt?”
“An older brother, Garrett.” His fingers briefly whitened on the edge of the carved marble mantel. “He died on his twenty-first birthday.”
She absorbed the undertones, and her heart felt what she saw in his eyes before he masked it. “I’m sorry. Were you close?”
“Extremely. We—”
“James.” The man’s voice was cold and crisp. Isis looked over her shoulder, fumbling with her glass and the slippery seat to get to her feet as the Earl of Kilgetty greeted his son.
Thorne didn’t walk over to greet his father, and his father came only a few steps into the room. Neither extended a hand to shake. Thorne put his cup and saucer on the high mantel and turned back, his face expressionless. “You look well, Father.”
“I can’t say the same for you. I thought you’d gone to live in America.”
“Seattle, yes. This is Professor Magee’s daughter, Isis. Isis, the Earl.”
The Earl and his son were the same height and shared the same hazel eyes, but on the father the color was muddier and less interesting. He looked stern and unkind. Bitter. Isis had the irrational urge to rush over and stand beside Thorne in solidarity. It would’ve helped if he’d introduced his father by the way Isis was supposed to address him. My lord? Your Earliness? Hell.
“Pleased to meet you,” she decided was good enough. The Earl gave her a cool, disinterested look, his gaze flicking from her sneakers up her jean-clad legs and over the open Windbreaker, then landing on her wildly curling hair. He didn’t look impressed with what he was seeing. Too damned bad.
“How is August?”
“I’m afraid he has Alzheimer’s,” she said. “I suspect his condition was exacerbated by the attack he sustained on his last trip to Egypt.” She’d come to terms with her father’s illness, and her voice no longer broke as she shared the news.
“Yes,” the Earl said vaguely, with all the interest of one looking over yesterday’s newspaper, then turned his attention to his son. “Your mother is in Paris shopping. I’m sure she’ll be sorry to have missed you.”
“I’m sure she won’t give a damn,” Thorne returned flatly.
“That’s uncalled-for.” His father’s thin lips disappeared in disapproval. “Why are you here?”
“I’d like you to contact the museum and have them grant us access to Professor Magee’s artifacts.”
“To what purpose? This is an odd time to show an interest in Egyptology.” He tucked his fingertips into his jacket pocket like the man in the portrait nearby, as if he were posing for his own portrait.
Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “Have I ever requested a favor of you? Can’t you just do this because I ask?”
“They’re preparing to exhibit Magee’s discoveries. They will be available on the ninth of next month. You can see everything then with the rest of the public.”
Ouch.
“This is a time-sensitive matter,” Thorne said tightly. “I’ve already spoken to the museum. They won’t grant us full access. You, however, are not only on the board, you’re their biggest sponsor. Make the call.”
Thorne’s father glanced at Isis. “Forgive me, Miss Magee, but your father has had… issues in the past. His drinking became a serious problem, and his veracity came under question with each preposterous claim. It was only with the help of my public relations people that I was able to smooth the path to this exhibit, and restore some verisimilitude to a career spanning thirty years. I don’t want any adverse publicity to taint the exhibit at this juncture. What do you hope to find?”
“W—” Connor started to say hotly, but Isis cut them both off.
“With all due respect, that’s my father you’re talking about.” Isis placed her glass on a spindly table with a sharp click. “We’re asking you to pick up the phone and make one call. If that’s beyond your capabilities, the name Magee still holds some weight. We’ll get what we need with or without you.” Her teeth ground together, and she held on to her temper by a thread. Her response was knee-jerk, probably rude and uncalled-for, but her father’s situation was already a sore spot for her without this sanctimonious man casting aspersions.
“The first time you bring a woman home, and she’s not only American, but as uncouth as her father. Congratulations, James. You have once again sunk to meet my low expectation.” If his tone could have gotten any icier, it would have frozen half of England in one go. “I’ll make a phone call. Roberts will see you out. I’ll tell your mother you stopped by.” His expressionless eyes flickered from his son to Isis. “Miss Magee.” The Earl of Kilgetty turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
THREE
That went as well as could be expected,” Thorne muttered wryly, opening the door of the taxi almost before it came to a full stop in front of the house. Isis threw him a hot look before getting inside and slipping silently across the seat. He slid in beside her and gave the driver the address of their hotel.
“I’d apologize and claim His
Lordship wasn’t himself, but that’s exactly who he is, and neither of us makes any pretense otherw—”
Isis shocked the hell out of him when she flung her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were moist and warm, slightly parted, and more comforting than lustful. But Thorne had enjoyed that encounter with his father even less than she had, and if she was offering comfort, he wasn’t a man to turn down such an enticing offer.
Whatever the reason, he hadn’t been the one to make the first move. There was absolution there.
Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her in, angled his head, and feasted on her with deep, greedy kisses, like a drowning man gasping for air in a monsoon. She gave back in equal measure, gripping both hands in his hair, pressing against him as she dived right in with verve and enthusiasm.
Adrenaline surged through him, and he was already hard. Unbuttoning her jacket, Thorne slid one hand inside, cupping the small, heavy weight of her breast. Her nipple was hard through the thin cotton of her T-shirt, and she arched her back to press her breast hard against his fingers. She whimpered as he rubbed his thumb over the hardness, feeling the pucker of the areola through the thin satin of her bra and toying with her nipple. She shifted beside him, her tongue dancing with his, her teeth scoring his lower lip, sucking on it until he thought he’d come right there in the back of the taxi.
His dick pulsed, and he pulled her across his lap without breaking contact. The vibration of her moan, low in her throat, went through his body like the hum of a tuning fork. Her fingers tightened in his hair. He cupped her arse, pulling her hard against where he needed the pressure. It didn’t help—made it worse, in fact, and more unbearable.
Combing his fingers through her silky curls, Thorne held her head steady as he invaded her mouth. The taste of her drove him mad. Lemon cookies and cola. Comfort and reprieve. He skimmed his other hand under her T-shirt to the softness of her midriff, just above her jeans. Her skin was like rose petals, cool and impossibly smooth.
The kiss was wild and bordered on rough. It was the kind of kiss long-term lovers shared, not the touch of two virtual strangers.
His fingers slid under the thin barrier to find bare skin. Thorne had never in his life been so aroused at the mere touch of a woman’s breast. The feel of her bare skin made him want to strip her naked so he could see all of her. The weight of her breast fit his hand as if made for him. Her sweet breast rose and fell erratically in the cup of his fingers. Thorne was stunned at his visceral reaction to her. Yes, God yes, he was physically attracted to her. He wasn’t made of stone. But there was something more—what the Spanish called la ñapa and the Louisiana French called lagniappe. That little bit extra. She was dangerous to his equilibrium.
Shivering, she murmured low in her throat, and without stopping the kiss, firmly gripped his wrist and removed his fingers from her breast.
His chest ached and he realized he’d forgotten to breathe as his hungry mouth devoured hers. Reluctantly he lifted his head, sucking in great drafts of air as she did the same. Skin flushed, her eyes were closed, long dark lashes smudges on her cheeks as she fought to catch her breath.
He had to put a stop to this, now. In a minute. In an hour. Fuck it, tomorrow.
Thorne pulled her back again, already missing the slick texture of her mouth and the way her body responded to his touch. Crushing his lips to her, he swept inside and found her tongue waiting there for him. Isis didn’t receive passively; she wasn’t afraid to give as good as she got. Her hand gripped the back of his neck, making him shudder.
“We’re ’ere, gov. Want me to take another turn around the park?”
APPARENTLY THAT IMPULSIVE I’m-sorry-your-father-is-a-jerk kiss in the cab had scared off “Just Thorne” because he’d dropped her off at the hotel two hours ago and disappeared.
Too bad, because Isis wanted—rather desperately—to kiss him again, preferably not in a moving vehicle. She presumed he’d come back eventually. She very much looked forward to locking lips with Thorne again. He was a fabulous kisser.
The hotel was way too damned expensive, but he’d typically overridden her protests about the unnecessary cost. At this rate, given Lodestone’s exorbitant fee and Thorne’s per diem, her small budget for expenses would be eaten up before they found what she was looking for.
Dressed in jeans and a pale blue T-shirt, her feet bare, Isis stared out of her hotel window, enjoying the sight of the darkening evening sky, the city lights twinkling in a beautiful sparkly blanket as far as the eye could see. She hadn’t been to London in several years, and she was eager to get out and explore before they got down to some serious work at the museum the next day.
No matter how pricey the hotel, she didn’t want to spend the evening alone in her room. It gave her too much time to think. She was worried about her father. His health hadn’t been good since he’d returned from Cairo, and while his Alzheimer’s prevented him from being aware she was gone, she liked to check on him every day. Had she missed something? As confused as he was about the circumstances of his “accident,” had he given her clues to Cleo’s tomb that she hadn’t picked up on? Her father loved puzzles, and the more obtuse and confusing the better.
She’d searched his apartment in Seattle a dozen times looking for anything that might lead her to his last find. Isis believed that he’d discovered Cleo’s final resting place this time. He’d found his life’s work, and it was a cruel irony of fate that now he didn’t remember exactly where he’d been.
No one would believe he’d done what he’d promised. It was up to her to close the circle of her father’s brilliant legacy while there was still time.
Before his death. And before someone else claimed the historic discovery for themselves.
Where the frick are you, “Just Thorne?”
He was from London, so she presumed he had friends there. Was some girlfriend reaping the benefits of her warm-up? The thought annoyed her no end. Holding the drapes aside, she swore under her breath. He was no monk. And she’d made her position clear—he was well within his rights to do whatever he pleased with whomever he wanted to please.
That didn’t mean Isis had to like it.
Blasted man.
She’d showered, ordered the cheapest thing on the room service menu, and eaten a solitary and too early dinner. The evening stretched out before her like a thick blank notebook.
To hell with him. She was in no mood to watch a movie at inflated hotel rates, and she had, as her grandmother was wont to say, ants in her pants—although she was pretty sure Nana hadn’t meant it in quite the same way. Or maybe she had; her Nana had been a spitfire until the day she died last year, at ninety-two.
Yes. Ants in her pants. Hot to trot. Horny.
She hadn’t meant the kiss to get that heated that fast. She’d offered a comforting hand, and he’d taken it as the offer not of her arm, but of her entire body. He was an awesome kisser. First-class. And Isis imagined he’d be an equally spectacular lover. God only knew, she wanted the infuriating man, but they’d known each other five minutes, for goodness’ sake. One of them had to be sensible.
She could be sensible while she was kissing him, Isis decided. She could allow herself to lose her head a little with him, but she decided not to qualify exactly how much and how far a “little” kiss would take her.
But she was not going to sit waiting for any man in a hotel room when she was in an exciting city that was just waiting to be explored. The swanky room was all about the large, inviting bed. The farther away she was from beds when with “Just Thorne,” the easier it would be for her to maintain a safe distance. He was temptation personified, but as much as she was intrigued and as much as she wanted to kiss him some more, they had a business relationship. She didn’t want to muddy the waters when she’d invested everything she had on the chance that he could tell her where to find Cleo’s tomb.
Sex, no matter how tempting, was out.
Pulling her red Windbreaker out of the clo
set, Isis grabbed her camera bag and slung it across her body. It doubled as a purse, and was rarely out of her sight. Tucked in next to her precious Canon 5D Mark II was some walking-around cash, a credit card that was almost maxed out, and her keycard. She let herself out of the room and headed for the elevator.
Jabbing the button, she shook her head. He’d kissed her into complete delirium, leaving her hot and bothered, then practically shoved her out of the cab before she knew what hit her. The fact that she’d called a halt a nanosecond before that was immaterial.
Before she realized that he wasn’t getting out with her, she was looking at the back of his head as the taxi sped away.
She touched her mouth as the elevator dinged. “Chicken.”
Picking up a London street map in the lobby, she set out to explore the city. Isis kept to main thoroughfares, and happily window-shopped for several hours. The brightly lit shops beckoned, but she didn’t buy anything, just looked, and smelled, and tasted. She popped into an ice-cream shop and ordered a banana split, inhaling it while talking to a young mother and her two ice-cream-smeared little boys.
She took hundreds of pictures—of buildings, and people, and flower boxes and anything else that struck her fancy. When she was taking photographs she totally lost herself. She finally realized how much time had passed, only because her feet were starting to hurt. The shops were starting to close and there weren’t as many people on the street. It was too early to go back, so she decided to see the comedy she’d been dying to see at a fifties-style movie theater a few blocks from the hotel.
It was well after eleven when she let herself into her room and kicked off her shoes. She frowned just inside the door as she tried to remember where the light switch was. She was sure she’d left the light on before she—