by Нора Робертс
"It is.”
"One day I'd like to go. To Paris and Florence, to Barcelona and Athens." They were hot, colorful dreams of hers, and the anticipation of them as exciting as the wish. "You've been to those places.”
"Not Athens. Yet. My mother liked to travel, so we went to Europe every year when I was growing up. Every other to Ireland. We still have family there.”
"And what's your favorite?" She rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her laced fingers. "Of all the places you've been.”
"Hard to say. The west coast of Ireland, the hills in Tuscany, a sidewalk cafi in Paris. But at the moment, right here is my favorite place.”
"There's that silky tongue again. All right then, tell me about Boston.”
"It's a New England harbor city of great historical importance." When she laughed, he sat back and soaked it in. "Oh, that's not what you meant.”
"Tell me about your family. You have brothers, sisters?”
"Two brothers, one sister.”
"Big family.”
"Are you kidding? My parents were pikers in the go-forth-and-multiply area. Mom has six brothers and sisters, my father comes from a family of eight. None of their siblings had less than five kids. We are legion.”
"You miss them.”
"I do? Okay, I do," he admitted reluctantly. "From this nice, safe distance, I've realized I actually like my family.”
"They'll come visit you?”
"Eventually. Everyone will wait for my mother to start actually speaking to me again. In our house if it's not one thing, it's your mother.”
She sampled the appetizer he'd ordered for her. She wore no rings, and he wondered why. She had lovely hands, slim, elegant, delicate. The silver key rested against that smooth, dusky skin, and there was a glint of silver at her ears. But her fingers, her wrists were bare. Beautifully bare, he realized, and wondered if the lack of ornamentation was some sort of female ploy to make a man notice every line, every curve, every sweep of her.
It was sure as hell working that way on him.
"You think she's mad at you? Your mama?”
He had to blink himself back to the threads of conversation. "Not mad. Irritated, annoyed, baffled. If she was really angry, she'd be down here in my face, chipping away until I crumbled to her terrifying will.”
"Does she want you to be happy?”
"Yes. We love each other like idiots. She'd just be more satisfied if my happiness aligned with her point of view.”
Her head angled, and again he caught that wink of silver through the thick, dark curls of her hair. "Why don't you let her know she hurts your feelings?”
"What?”
"If you don't let her know she hurts them, how is she going to stop?”
"I let them down.”
"Oh, you did not," she replied, with a kind of impatient sympathy. "You think your family wants you to be miserable and unfulfilled? Married to a woman you don't love, working at a career that you don't want?”
"Yes. No," he answered. "I don't honestly know.”
"Then it seems to me you ought to ask them.”
"Do you have any siblings?”
"No. And tonight we're going to talk about you.
We'll save me for another time. Did you find what you wanted at your antique shops?”
"And then some." More comfortable talking about acquisitions than family, he gave her a blow-by-blow that took them into the main course.
"How do you know what you want before you have the room done?”
"I just do." He moved his shoulders. "I can't explain it. I've got this great davenport on hold for the upriver parlor. That's where I'm starting next, and it's not nearly as big a job as the kitchen. Walls and floors mostly. I want to get a good start on the interiors so I can concentrate on the galleries, the double stairs, have the place painted starting in April, if I'm lucky. That way, we should be able to shift back inside before the summer heat.”
"Why are you pushing so hard? The house isn't going anywhere.”
"Remember the single-minded, competitive nature I told you about?”
"Doesn't mean you can't relax a bit. How many hours are you putting in in a week?”
"I don't know. Ten, twelve a day generally." Then he grinned and reached for her hand.
"You worried about me? I'll take more time off if you'll spend it with me.”
"I'm not that worried about you." But she left her hand in his, let it be held against that hard, calloused palm. "Still, Mardi Gras's coming. If you don't take some time to enjoy that, you might as well be in Boston." She looked at the double souffli their waiter set in the middle of the table. "Oh my. My, my." She leaned forward, closed her eyes, and sniffed. And was laughing when she opened them again. "Where's yours?”
He took her dancing. He'd found a club that played the slow fox-trots and jazzy swings of the thirties, and surprised her by whirling her around the floor until her legs were weak.
"You're full of surprises.”
"Bet your ass." He swung her into his arms, had her blood pressure spiking when he ran his hands down her body and gripped her hips. Her body rolled against his, a wave sliding under a wave while a tenor sax wailed.
He dipped her, had her laughing even as her pulse went thick. She let her head fall back, her hair stream down as he lowered his face toward hers. His lips skimmed over her chin, just a hint of teeth, then he swept her up again, circled her, seduced her.
The lights were a warm, smoky blue, and his movements fluid so it was like moving underwater. The yearning she wasn't ready for crawled into her belly. With her eyes half closed, she skimmed a hand into his hair, brought his face closer, that last inch closer so his mouth met hers.
"You fit, Lena. We fit.”
She shook her head, turned it so her cheek rested against his. "You make love half as well as you dance, you must have a trail of female smiles in your wake.”
"Let me show you." He nipped at her earlobe, and felt her quick shiver. "I want to touch you. I know how your skin will feel under my hands. I dreamed about it.”
She kept her eyes closed, tried to lock away the yearning. "Just dance with me. It's getting late, and I want one more dance.”
She rested her head on his shoulder in the limo. The music, the wine, the soft lights were all still playing in her head. She felt drenched in romance, and knowing that had been his intention didn't diminish the effect. It only enhanced it.
He was a man who would trouble himself with the details. The large and the small. With the house he'd chosen, with the woman he wanted.
She admired that. Admired him.
"You show a girl a good time, cher.”
"Let me show you one tomorrow night.”
"I work tomorrow night.”
"Your next night off, then.”
"I'm going to think about that. I'm not being coy, Declan." She sat up so she could look at him. "I don't like coy. I'm being cautious. I can't say I care much for that, either, but where you're concerned I think it's the smart thing to be. And I do like being smart.”
As the limo glided to the curb in front of her home, she trailed a finger down his cheek. "Now you walk me to my door, and kiss me good-night.”
He carried the silver bucket with the purple tulips. He set them down in front of her door, then framed her face in his hands.
The kiss was sweeter than she'd expected.
She'd been prepared for heat, the persuasive, pervasive heat that might melt her resistance. Instead he gave her the sweet, and the gentle, ending the evening as he'd begun it. With romance.
"How about before you go to work?" He lifted her hand to his lips now. "I'll take you on a picnic.”
Undone, she stared at him. "A picnic?”
"It should be warm enough. We can spread a blanket by the pond. You can bring Rufus along as chaperone. I like watching him jump in.”
"Damn it." She caught his face in her hands now. "Damn it. I want you to go on down to that big white limo.”
"Okay." He touched her hair. "I'll just wait until you're inside.”
"Go down to the limo," she repeated. "And pay that driver, and tell him to go on home. Then you come back up.”
He closed his hands over her wrists, felt the trip of her pulse. "Five minutes. Don't change your mind. Two minutes," he amended. "Time me.”
As he bolted down the stairs, she picked up her flowers, let herself inside. If it was a mistake, she thought, it wouldn't be her first. Or her last.
She lit the candles, put on some Billie Holiday. Sex should be easy, she reminded herself. When it was between two unattached adults with, well, at least some affection along with the lust, it should be a celebration.
Whether or not she'd been persuaded, the decision was hers. There was no point in regretting it before it had even begun.
He knocked. The idea that he would, rather than just walking in, made her smile. Good manners and hot blood. It was an interesting combination. Irresistible.
She opened the door, and Billie Holiday's heartbreak streamed out. Declan slid his hands into his pockets and smiled at her.
"Hi.”
"Hi back, handsome." Lena reached out and grabbed his tie. "Come on in here." She tugged, and pulled him in the door. And, walking backward, would have pulled him straight into the bedroom.
But he laid his hands on her hips, drew her to him. "I like your music." He eased her into a dance. "When I can see something besides you, I'll tell you if I like your place.”
"Did you take lessons on what to say to have women falling for you?”
"Natural gift." He brushed his lips at each corner of her mouth. Over that sexy little mole. "The streets of Boston are littered with my conquests. It was playing hell with traffic, so the city council asked me to leave." He skimmed his cheek over hers. "I smell you in my sleep. And wake up wanting you.”
Her heart began to shiver, like something feeling warmth after a long freeze. "I knew you were trouble, the minute you stepped up to my bar." She stretched under the hand that ran down her back. "I just didn't know how much trouble.”
"Plenty." He scooped her off her feet, crushed his mouth to hers until they both moaned. "Which way?”
"Mmm. I've got a number of ways in mind.”
What blood was left in his head shot straight down to his loins. "Ha. I meant which way is your bedroom.”
With a low laugh, she chewed on his bottom lip. "Door on the left."
He had a number of impressions as he carried her across the room, through the doorway. Vibrant colors, old wood. But most of his senses were wrapped around the woman in his arms. The weight of her, the shape and scent. The surprise that flickered over her face when he set her on her feet beside the bed instead of on it.
"I'd like to take my time with this, if it's all the same to you." He trailed a fingertip down her collarbone, over the lovely curve of breast the dress displayed. "You know, like unwrapping a present.”
"I can't say I mind that.”
She'd expected a rush-fast hands, hungry mouth-to match the reckless lust she'd seen in his gaze. When his hands took hers, linked fingers, and his lips lay silky on her lips, she remembered how ruthlessly he'd controlled his temper the day before.
It seemed his control reached to other passions as well.
She wasn't prepared for romance. He'd realized it when she'd seen the tulips. More than surprise, there'd been suspicion in her eyes. Just as there was now as he slowed the pace, lingered over the quiet pleasure of a kiss.
Seducing her into bed was no longer enough. He wanted to seduce that suspicion into helpless pleasure.
Her lips were warm and willing. It was no hardship to mate his with them, to float on that lazy slide of tongues while their bodies swayed together as if they were still dancing.
He knew when her fingers went limp in his that she floated with him.
He lowered the zipper of her dress in one slow glide and traced his fingers over the newly exposed flesh. She arched her back, and all but purred.
"You've got good hands, cher, and very sexy lips." Watching him now, as he watched her, she loosened the knot of his tie. "Let's see about the rest of you.”
There was something about undressing a man in a suit, she thought. The time it took to remove all the layers to get to skin, built anticipation, honed curiosity. He touched her as she unbuttoned his shirt, easing the dress off her shoulders so that it clung, erotically, to the curve of her breasts. He nibbled at her mouth, never hurrying, never groping.
And when she opened his shirt, ran her hands over his chest with a little hum of approval, she felt the heavy beat of his heart under her palms.
"Some build you've got for a lawyer.”
"Ex-lawyer." It was like dying, he thought, dying by inches to have those long, slender fingers with those hot red nails running over him. She pinched lightly at his biceps, licked her lips.
"Yes indeed, you're just full of surprises. I like a strong man.”
She tapped her nails on his belt buckle, and her smile was female. Feline. "Let's see what other surprises you've got for me.”
They were dancing again, the oldest dance, and somehow she'd taken the lead. His stomach muscles quivered when she whipped the belt off, tossed it over her shoulder.
In his mind he saw himself throwing her down on the bed, pounding himself and this outrageous need into her. She'd accept it.
She'd expect it.
Instead, he took both her hands before she could unhook his trousers and lifted them to his lips.
Watching her over them, he saw the surprise-and again the suspicion.
"I seem to be falling behind," he said playfully. "And since I've been wondering what you've got on under that dress, I'd like to find out how close my speculations were to reality.”
He laid his lips on her bare shoulder, used them to nudge the material down her arm. And blessed the laws of gravity when it slid down and puddled at her feet.
She wore black lace.
She was every man's fantasy. Dusky skin, tumbled hair, full, high breasts barely restrained in that fancy of lace. The slim torso, the gently rounded hips with more midnight lace riding low. Shapely legs in sheer black stockings and man– killer heels.
"Close." The breath was already burning in his lungs. "Very close. What's this?" He traced a fingertip over the tattoo on her inner thigh, just above the lacy edge of her stocking.
"That's my dragon. He guards the gates." She was trembling, and wasn't ready to tremble. "A lot of men think they can get past him. A lot of men get burned."
He stroked his finger up, along that sensitive valley between lace and thigh. "Let's play with fire.”
He yanked her against him, devoured her mouth. And when that wasn't enough, whirled her around to scrape his teeth along her shoulder, the side of her neck. With his face buried in her hair he ran his hands up her body, filled them with her lace-covered breasts.
She arched back to him, hooked her arms around his neck and offered. The spin from patient to urgent left her dizzy, brutally aroused and ready to be taken. She felt the greed from him now, and felt her own rise to match it.
His hand slid down, cupped between her legs, pressed, and brought her to the jagged edge of release. Before she could fall, he trailed his fingers down her thigh and with one fast flick, unhooked a garter.
Her breath caught. Her body strained. "Mon Dieu.”
"When I'm inside you, you won't be able to think about anything else." He unhooked a second garter. "But first, I need to touch you, the way I've been dreaming of touching you." He rubbed his lips over her shoulder, nudged the strap of her bra aside. "Angelina.”
He turned her to face him, let his fingers dive into her hair, draw her head back. "You're mine tonight.”
Denial, defiance, fought their way through seduction. "I belong to myself.”
He scooped her up, laid her back on the bed. "Tonight, we're going to belong to each other.”
He closed his mouth ov
er hers, stopping her words, drugging her brain. She turned her head to take a breath, to try to steady herself again. But his lips trailed down to her breast, over flesh, over lace, under it. The long, liquid tugs in her belly loosened her muscles, melted her will.
She yielded, telling herself she was surrendering to her own needs, and not to him.
He felt her give, the softening of her. Heard it in the low, throaty moan that was pleasure and acceptance.
So he took what he'd been aching for since the first moment he'd seen her in the morning mist.
Her body was a treasure, scented skin, female curves. He fed himself on the taste of it in slow sips and long gulps. Then freed her breasts to his hands, his mouth. His blood raged like a firestorm, but he let himself burn and tortured them both.
When he rolled the lace down her hips, she arched. Opened. He traced his fingers over her, watching her face in the candlelight as her eyes closed, her lips trembled on a groan. And when he slid them into her, into the hot wet velvet of her, she bowed up, cried out. Drove him mad.
Pressing his face to her belly, he sent her flying.
Her body was a mass of aches, of joys, with the sharp edge of sensation slicing through like a bolt of light. It burst in her, sent her helplessly hurtling.
She reached for him, closed her hand around him. He was hard as stone. She wanted him inside her as much as she wanted her next breath.
"Now. I want you." She felt him quiver, even as she quivered. Saw herself in his eyes as he rose over her. "I want you to fill me. Fill me up.”
He clung to that slippery line of control, and as her legs wrapped around him, slid slowly, very slowly into her. Slid deep when she rose to meet him. Held there with his breath caught in his throat and everything he was lost in her.
Sighs now, and a quick, rushing gasp. They kept their eyes on each other and moved, an almost lazy pace that spread pleasure like a warm pool. Their lips met, and he felt hers curve against his before he lifted his head to see her smile.
Flesh glided over flesh, silky friction. Music, the tragic sob of it from her living room, a sudden celebratory burst of it from the street below, merged together in his head with her quickening breaths.