The Emperor's New Clothes

by Victoria Alexander

  He studied her in the dark. She was an enigma. What was real and what was false? He wanted the answer almost as much as he wanted her. His determination to get both strengthened. “But it’s a beautiful evening, Countess. Far too beautiful to waste alone. Why the moon is—”

  “I know all about the moon,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Then I needn’t remind you of Venice?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He set his glass on the railing and stepped closer. Her scent teased, intriguing and warm like an exotic flower or an undiscovered spice. She moved back. “In that case, perhaps I’ll simply remind you of Wyoming,” he said.

  “Wyoming? I’ve never been to Wyoming before.” Suspicion underlay her words.

  He chuckled and took another step. So did she. A few mere inches separated them. “But earlier today, right on this very porch, I believe we were about to—”

  “We were about to do absolutely nothing,” she said sharply.

  “Why, Ophelia, I’m shocked.” He leveled his best indignant gaze at her.

  “Shocked?” The word was cautious.

  “That you would lie to me.” His gaze drifted lower to the intriguing cleavage revealed by his proximity and framed by the low-cut emerald concoction she wore like a second skin.

  “Lie? What on earth do you mean?” she said slowly.

  He stifled a chuckle. “How can you deny that you and I were all set to share a kiss?”

  “I wouldn’t call it share,” she said in a lofty manner. “I believe steal is a more appropriate word.”

  “Ophelia.” He sighed in an exaggerated manner and shook his head, stepping forward once again. A bare inch now separated them. The heat of her body permeated his shirt. And if she smelled this wonderful, how delicious would she taste? “It’s a simple matter of perspective. I was certain you wished to kiss me every bit as much as I wished to kiss you, although—”

  “You were wrong.” Her back was against the post, and he noted with satisfaction she had nowhere left to go.

  “—I can well imagine why a woman, even a widow, would prefer to believe she was coerced into a kiss than admit she gave her favors freely.”

  “That’s not it at all!”

  “‘Methinks thou dost protest too much.’” He rested his hand on the post just above her head and stared down at her. She was only a few inches shorter than he, and it would take very little effort to meet her lips with his.

  “Don’t you dare quote Shakespeare to me!”

  “And why not, oh, fair Ophelia?” Lips that pouted and swelled with a promise of passion.

  “Because I don’t like it.” A slight breathlessness in her voice belied the force of her objection.

  “Well, I do.” Lips that would deny the unquestionable glow of desire in her eyes. Desire evident even in the moonlight. Desire she probably didn’t recognize…yet. He brushed an errant strand of hair, silky and sensual, from her face.

  She slapped his hand away. “Well, I don’t. Besides, you don’t do it at all well.”

  “Really?” He was so close he could see the pulse throb in her throat. He could easily touch his lips to the inviting beat. “What’s wrong with the way I do it?”

  “Well…” She stared up at him, her eyes wide, her breath fast. “The actual phrase is…um…”

  “Yes?” He lowered his lips to that tempting point in the hollow of her throat, and she gasped.

  “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’” There was an edge of apprehension and misgiving and need in her voice. “That’s…um…the proper quote…”

  “Is it?” Her flesh was warm beneath his touch, and his tongue teased and tasted and slowly traveled up her neck to the line of her jaw. “And does she?”

  “She does,” she whispered.

  “I stand corrected.” He straightened and stared into eyes glazed with awakening passion.

  “Tye?” The word was little more than a breathless sigh.

  A sense of victory surged through him. She’d used his name. She would soon be in his bed. “Yes, Ophelia.”

  “You were right.”

  He raised a brow. “Oh?”

  She swallowed and shook her head. “I did want to kiss you.”

  “I know.” He struggled to keep a smug smile from his lips.

  “And”—she shuddered, as if losing a battle with herself—“I want to kiss you now.”

  “I know.”

  “So…” Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip, and his stomach tightened at the sight of it. The satisfaction he’d noted a moment before flew in the face of that simple, nervous, almost innocent gesture. He dismissed the thought at once. While Alvin-Alphonse-Alfred-etcetera probably never existed, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Ophelia was an experienced woman of the world. “So…kiss me,” she whispered.

  He cupped her chin with his hand. “I’d be delighted, Countess.”

  He brought his lips to hers gently, with a restraint that had always driven women to distraction. He brushed his mouth across hers with a light touch, and she sighed against him. His lips teased hers, and his tongue traced the inner rim of her mouth. Dimly he heard the shatter of a wine glass hitting the floor.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck with a charming hesitation as if she’d never really embraced a man before. He gathered her to him in an easy, fluid motion designed to prolong the slow, steady pace of his building seduction and her growing desire. Her breasts crushed against his chest, and he could feel the beat of her heart against his. He pulled her tighter and deepened his kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth and meeting her own oddly halting response until she moaned and sagged against him.

  She tasted of wine and honey. Hot and savory and sweet. Abruptly, all thought of restrained technique vanished under the onslaught of his own insistent need, and his lips plundered hers with a fierce ache that demanded to be fed. One hand splayed across the small of her back; the other cradled the nape of her neck and held her defenseless against his conquering mouth. He lost himself in her touch and her taste—and he wanted her naked and hot and throbbing beneath him. She affected him more than he’d expected, more than he’d dreamed. Desire swept away all concern for any truth beyond the prospect of the ecstasy to be found in her embrace.

  A peal of laughter sounded from inside the house, and he jerked his head up to check the door. No one was there, and he relaxed, turning his gaze back to her.

  Her eyes were wide with wanting and something he couldn’t quite define, and her breath came in short gasps. She was as affected by their encounter as he, and no doubt wanted him as much as he wanted her. A yearning fire coursed through him, and he bent to claim her lips once more.

  “No.” She pushed her hands hard against his chest, and he pulled back in surprise.

  “No?”

  “That’s what I said.” She squirmed out of his grasp and stood facing him, her breasts heaving with an obvious attempt to quell frustrated desire with deep, soothing breaths of night air.

  He stepped toward her. “But why?”

  She thrust a hand out in front of her to stop his forward progress. “Mr. Matthews—Tye—this is neither the time or the place for any kind of assignation. Your family, your friends are just inside the door. This is certainly not acceptable or proper behavior for…for a mayor.”

  He laughed and abducted her hand, pulling it to his lips he placed a kiss in the palm. His gaze meshed with hers. “I never wanted to be mayor.”

  She stared, and her voice was strained, as if she too were struggling with unrequited passion. “Regardless of what you want, you are the mayor.”

  “Do you know what I want now?”

  Her hand trembled in his. “I imagine I do.”

  He pulled her back into his arms, noting in the recesses of his mind how perfectly her body fit with his. “I have wanted you since the moment we met.”

  Something that could have been fear mingled with longing in her eyes. “Have you?”

&nbs
p; “Surely that doesn’t surprise you.” He bent to nibble the tender flesh just below her ear. “You’re a beautiful woman, Ophelia. And a widow. You’re no stranger to the passion of men and women.”

  Lord, she tasted as good as she smelled.

  “What does that mean?” she whispered.

  “What does what mean?” he murmured. He could spend forever with the flavor of her on his lips.

  “That I am no stranger to passion.”

  “Only that you’re a woman of experience. You’ve been married and you’ve known the intimacies that entails.” He nuzzled her neck. “I want to share that intimacy with you. I want to show you the heights a man and woman can reach. I want to make love to you until you swoon from the sheer sensation and cry my name into the night.”

  She stilled beneath his exploring lips, and her skin seemed to cool. He raised his head and studied her. A heavy knot formed in his gut. The desire that had lingered in her eyes was gone, replaced by a vague look of shock and a not-so-subtle anger.

  “Release me, Mr. Matthews.” Her tone was cold and firm.

  He stepped back and stared. “What did I do?”

  “I’m afraid you have jumped to conclusions that are in error. I may well be a widow, but I’m not willing to leap into every bed presented me at the quirk of a gentleman’s little finger.”

  He pulled his brows together in annoyance. “See here, Ophelia, I didn’t mean to offend you. I assumed the attraction between us was mutual.”

  “Be that as it may, I am not used to being grappled.”

  “Grappled? What kind of an insult is that? I’ve never grappled in my life.” He glared, her verbal slap at his manhood wiping away all thoughts of restraint. “I’ll have you know, women have thrown themselves at my feet for a chance to be in my arms and in my bed. Grappled, my a—”

  “Harlots.” She cast him a look of sheer disdain. “Loose women, no doubt.”

  “Not at all. Most of them were”—he stared with a triumphant glare—“widows.”

  Even in the night he could see the sparks fly from her eyes. “Well, this is one widow who would rather see you rot than in her bed!”

  “Hah! Once again, Ophelia, you’re protesting too much.”

  “I detest you with every fiber of my being.” She turned on her heels and started toward the door.

  “You’re lying, and you don’t do it nearly as well as you think you do.” He grabbed her and pulled her struggling into his arms. “But this, fair Ophelia, is not a lie.”

  His lips claimed hers with a fury and a vengeance. And she battled against him with a rage of her own that seemed to change in an instant of mutual insight and acceptance to a fierce passion that took his breath away and stole his soul. For a moment or a lifetime they clung to each other, and he fought against a tide of emotion and sensation that threatened to bring him to his knees. He wanted to take her right here, and regardless of what she might say or what she might deny, he knew, as he had never known anything before or since, that she wanted him too.

  At long last, they pulled apart and he gazed into her eyes, her expression reflecting his own feelings: bemused and dazed and confused.

  She stared up at him, and her voice was little more than a whisper. “I despise you.”

  “I know.” He grinned and brushed his lips against her forehead. “Now, kiss me again.”

  “I have to go.” She pulled away from him, and this time he let her. She brought her hand up to her throat and stared at him as if she wasn’t quite sure of what she’d said or even where she was. His satisfaction was tempered only by the realization that his confusion matched her own. “So…good evening,” she said.

  “‘Parting is such sweet sorrow—” ’

  She gasped at his words, turned and fled. The door banged shut behind her.

  “‘—that I should say good night till it be morrow.’” He grinned and leaned against the railing. That was one quote she couldn’t argue with. And she couldn’t very well complain about his kiss again either.

  The grin slowly faded from his face. What had happened here tonight? He’d come out to get the truth from her, and admittedly seduction had seemed the most enjoyable way to do that, but who had been seducing who? And why did he abruptly want so much more from her than a mere night of pleasure? And what exactly was “so much more”? Was there another truth here that he didn’t seek but that existed nonetheless?

  Regardless of the unexpected emotions she aroused, emotions so far beyond lust he was hard-pressed to identify them, he still needed proof. Perhaps that maid of hers could be helpful. Alma said the pretty little thing had spent much of the day with Zach. He’d ask the boy to see what he could learn from the girl.

  Tye had learned quite a bit about his quarry tonight, though. If nothing else, the woman had a strong sense of loyalty. Her diatribe about her father proved that. And surprisingly, she cared about the same things in life that he did: home and family.

  As intriguing as that information was, it didn’t help in his quest for the truth. Even though he now knew that when Ophelia was caught up in turbulent emotion, anger or—he smiled—passion, her British accent seemed to disappear. But damnation, she was lovely when aroused. The high color in her face, the heat of her skin, the expression in her eyes like that of a frightened doe or a trusting child or an innocent girl. Abruptly the look in those eyes registered in his mind, and he jerked upright like a puppet on a string.

  Ophelia’s eyes were deep green pools of molten gems filled with fire and flame.

  But they were not the eyes of a widow.

  It was that damnable moon again. The blasted orb shone through her window and lit her room as if it were day. Ophelia tossed and turned, and still could not avoid the light and the images it conjured. Images of a golden-haired cowboy with a gleam in his eye and the lilt of Shakespeare on his lips. She threw the blankets off and slid out of bed to stalk back and forth across the room.

  She was just grateful that Jenny was already fast asleep when she’d finally slipped back into her room tonight. She was in no mood for idle chat, and besides, she was certain her sister would know what had happened. Surely the heat Tye had triggered within her would show up on her face. It was bad enough to walk back into the house and encounter Big Jack and Lorelie and their guests. She was fairly confident most hadn’t noted anything, but Big Jack did cast his speculative gaze first at her, and then at the door and back to her. If anyone suspected her activities on the porch, Jack would. The man was obviously crafty and quite smart.

  As for his nephew…she shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. How was she going to handle Tyler Matthews? All he had to do was kiss her and she melted like a schoolgirl. Her entire life she’d avoided men exactly like him. Men who were arrogantly confident of their own considerable charms. Men who used women for their pleasure and their pleasure alone. Men who freely bandied about words like “love” without a second thought as to their effect on their adoring victims. Men just like her father.

  Edwin Kendrake was a good father and, judging by the women eager to share his company, an expert in the art of love as well. But when it came to that curious emotion, her dear father was no different than any of the other actors she’d grown up around. She often wondered if even with her mother Edwin had ever really known the genuine love of a man for a woman. If so, he’d never bothered to demonstrate it for his children. Men were, no doubt, all the same.

  Even Tye.

  She brushed her hair out of her eyes and stopped by the window, glaring at the moon that filled the Wyoming night. His words, his touch, his kiss, everything about him screamed the truth: He too was an expert in seduction, an accomplished competitor in the sport of bedding, a master of the art of lust.

  It was his skill and nothing more that she’d nearly succumbed to. She nodded firmly to the moon. Indeed, his prowess with the finer points of ravishment explained everything. It was no doubt the reason why any coherent thought she might have had had faded with a mere t
ouch of his hand. Why his face, his laugh, his eyes filled her mind and kept her body taut and restless. And why she was almost ready to sacrifice her well-guarded virtue for a night of pleasure in his arms.

  “I won’t become one of those sniveling, weeping women who lose their hearts and minds and very souls to a man.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I refuse to let any male use me and toss me aside like a discarded card in a bad hand. And I don’t care if his eyes do remind me of chocolate and his skin is as warm as the sun in midsummer and his kiss is as intoxicating as a third glass of champagne….”

  She glared at the silent moon. “And I don’t care…” Her voice faltered. “I don’t care one whit about the desire in his eyes when he talks about his home and his family. And when he looks at me.

  “He is the most infuriating, maddening man in the world. I hate him.” The moon stared down at her, mute and accusing. “Very well, perhaps I don’t hate him. But I don’t love him. I could never love him. And I don’t especially like him. Not even a little.”

  Why hadn’t she ever paid much attention to the shadows on the moon? Shapes and shades that looked very much like a face. A smugly smiling face. A male face. “All right, maybe a little.” She leaned her forearms on the windowsill. “Maybe a lot.”

  Did the moon’s grin widen? “But it doesn’t matter. Not at all. I know all about the Tyler Matthews of the world. And I won’t let him break my heart.” She sighed. “No matter how exciting the breaking might be.

  “Besides,” she said with a shrug, “he thinks shooting your brother is an appropriate response to a little deception. Lord knows what he’d think about selling land one doesn’t own. The man may well be a scoundrel when it comes to women, but I’d wager he has a horribly honest streak a mile wide.

  “No.” Resolve pulled her upright. “There is no place in my life for Mr. Matthews. Especially not the life his uncle’s money will so comfortably provide.” She threw a final, firm glare at the moon. “So you can go cast your magic somewhere else. Venice, perhaps. I have no use for you here.”

  She nodded and strode from the window, throwing herself into her bed and yanking the coverlet up around her ears. First thing in the morning she had that horrible fox hunt to avoid; then she could try to figure out how to get her money out of that nice banker’s vault and come up with a way to circumvent Big Jack’s insistence on an official ceremony complete with Her Majesty’s representative. How did the tailors in Jenny’s book ever manage to juggle all the annoying details of selling something that didn’t exist? Gad, this was actually work. Hard, exhausting work.