Breaking the kiss, she glanced upward. “Upstairs now?"
She didn't have to ask twice.
* * * *
Like a lemming, Mike followed Gwyn upstairs to her room. Luckily, no one saw her leading him by his tie like a tame monkey on a leash. “You know, we don't have time for this."
"Sure we do. It's like this, if you don't make love to me, you're going to have to tell me what you know—and don't bother denying it, you know something. And your plan."
"I'm not telling you anything. I've already told you why."
"Then I have to assume you really don't have a plan, and you're just blowing smoke."
"Now would I do something like that?” he asked, unable to hold back a laugh.
Her eyes widened, then she poked him in the chest. He took a step back. “Watch it,” he warned. Damn, but she was a formidable, if beautiful, opponent. Going to bed wasn't such a bad idea, but his plan for the evening was already set.
"You think this is funny?” she asked, poking him again.
"Sort of.” This time he gave no ground. “Mmm. What if I poked you like that?” He ran his hand over one of her breasts. The nipple budded under his touch. He grinned. “You don't seem to mind."
"If you poke me, I'll have to sue you for—"
"For what?” He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him, then lowered his lips to hers and kissed her.
"Mm,” she murmured against his mouth, “I'll think of something."
"But in the meantime—"
"In the meantime, you'll be too ... She nibbled on his lower lip, then added, “...busy."
"Mm.” Mike edged her toward the bed. He ripped her blouse open. Buttons flew.
She looked up at him, her lips parted expectantly. “I thought you were too busy,” she teased in a breathy tone that sent his testosterone level soaring.
"Uh-huh. Time is of the essence."
"Any other clichés you want to utter before I love you senseless?"
"We'll see who's senseless,” he challenged, stroking a rose pink nipple. The nipple tightened into a bud. “You're so beautiful.” Then he cupped her breasts, weighing their warmth. Gwyn sighed and wriggled against him.
"Sounds like a line to me."
"It is, but it's no less true."
"I see. Now what if I admitted you're the best lover I've ever had?"
"Thank you."
"I didn't say it. I said ‘what if?’”
"In that case, I'd say you had remarkable good sense."
"Remarkable? Why remarkable?"
"Because falling in love is one thing, and being a good lover is another. Remarkable is when everything comes together. Chemistry. Passion. Love.” He nibbled her ear lobe. “That's what I've found with you."
Her eyes widened as she drew back. “Are you sure it's not just chemistry?"
"Absolutely."
"You sound awfully certain."
"Believe me, there's no sex in the world that is worth putting up with a stubborn attorney with the personality of a cactus and a tendency toward hypochondria."
"What—"
"Say thank you."
"'Thank you’ for what? Unless I'm very mistaken, you just insulted me."
"No, I just told you that I love you in spite of your bad habits and character flaws."
"Allow me to clarify this. Against your better judgment, you're fondling my body, and if I'm not mistaken, ready to have your way with me, again, but you can't stand me."
"Clarify this, counselor. I love you—every inch of your long, lovely body and every quirk of your high-maintenance self. I love you."
"I'm still not convinced.” She drew her lips into a pout. “I think it's just the chemistry. I might need...” She worried her lip with her teeth. “...a wider basis for comparison. I'm afraid my experience is rather limited."
"I won't be responsible for what happens if you even think about broadening your experience."
"Oh, really?"
"Really."
She favored him with a smirking grin. “I suppose jealousy is a good sign."
"I'd be so far beyond jealous. I'd be devastated, destroyed. Could you be responsible for that?"
"Oh, I don't know. I like to think that the loss of my affections could do that to someone."
"You sweet witch."
"Witch?"
"Yes, you put a spell on me the first moment you walked into my office."
"Good, because I wasn't very impressed with you at all."
"And you made no secret of it."
Gwyneth giggled, snuggling closer into Mike's arms. “I didn't, did I?'
"But you were fooling yourself."
"I was?"
"Yes, I'm a master of observation. I watched your body language."
"And just what did my body language tell you?"
"You kept touching your hair. That told me you were very interested. And you were squirming in the chair, and that told me you thought I was hot."
"You're so arrogant."
"Am I wrong?"
Her lips spread into a wide, seductive smile that sent his hormones into overdrive. “You had my number, all right."
"Finally, you admit what I've known all along."
"I do love you, Mike."
"Show me."
"I will show you."
Gwyneth took in Mike's wicked grin and slipped her arms around his neck. Pressing her body against his, she gloried in his ready response. “You're going to find the killer and keep me out of jail?” Finding the killer had just been put on hold for the time being.
"Nuh-uh, counselor, you're in for some of that TLC I promised."
His mouth descended on hers. First, he teased and played with her bottom lip, nibbling tender kisses that set her heart racing and the warmth building and pooling in her lower belly. Then he claimed her breasts. She grew light-headed and moaned her need for him, grinding her pelvis against his erection.
Mike groaned, then pulled at his shirt while Gwyneth feverishly unbuttoned it with shaking hands. He ripped it off and let it fall to the floor. She splayed her hands across his chest, admiring his well-defined muscles, then teased his flat nipples with her tongue until they formed tight nubs.
"You're killing me.” He let out another low groan.
"Not you, too? I must be more careful. The sheriff already wants me to spend the rest of my life in jail."
Unbuckling his belt, she unzipped his pants and closed her hand around his hot length. Heat that matched her own.
Grinning, she backed him toward the bed. He offered no resistance, unless a knowing smile counted. She nudged him down, then skimmed her panties over her butt and stepped out of them. He waited for her—proudly.
She knelt beside him on the bed. His eyes widened as she stood up and over him.
"Omigod. What a view,” he whispered.
"Do you want to just look or—"
"God, no. Please—"
"That's better. I like a man who begs.” Since when? Next thing she knew, she'd be calling for a whip. Who was this woman who'd taken over her body?
"I want to touch you, fill you. Come for me."
She knelt over him, carefully centering herself over his erection. Plunging down, she joined the heat of their bodies and began to rock back and forth, up and down. His knees forming the back of her saddle, they arched and merged together.
Enveloped in the hot, silken prison of Gwyneth's flesh, Mike cupped her breasts in his hands and gasped from pleasure. Her hands on his body ... fire. On the brink, his breathing grew ragged ... desperate.
Above him, she cried his name. He thrust harder, her body jerking as her climax took her over the edge. His need gathered, grew and exploded with the contractions of her body around his. He groaned her name, barely able to breathe.
She collapsed across his chest, not breaking their bond. “I do love you,” she murmured, “I really, really do."
"I know. I really, really know,” he gasped, teasing her.
&n
bsp; "If I had the energy, I'd smack your smug face.” She emitted a long sigh.
"I'm glad you don't."
"You'd better be.” Gwyn moaned and rested her head on his shoulder.
She felt so right in his arms and in his life. Could things get any better? Somehow he doubted it.
* * * *
Gwyneth preened before the mirror, giving Mike an eyeful. “Like it?” she asked. For dinner, she'd chosen a turquoise, hip-hugging skirt and a belly-skimming top in the same color. Around the neckline was a narrow band of hand embroidery in a Greek-key motif. Shaking her head, her gold hoop earrings flashed, and the small turquoise studs enhanced the blue of her eyes. She looked hot.
"You look good enough to eat,” a sweaty, exhausted Mike told her from the bed.
"You should know, bad boy."
Mike groaned. “You are an evil woman. I'm a wreck. How do you expect me to unmask a killer tonight?"
She turned to look at him. “I am, aren't I? I think I like the sound of that."
"I can die happy now.” He lay back on the bed, arms outstretched, a wide smile plastered across his face.
"Well, you'd better drag yourself out of that bed, or I'll have to call in someone else to save my butt."
"Yeah,” he told her, still grinning, “maybe you ought to call the sheriff."
"Hah. I'll just call the best detective I know."
"But I'm the best detective you know."
She shook her head and gave him her most seductive smile. “'Fraid not."
"I'm in no condition to argue. It's all I can do to breathe."
"One word, Mike—Poirot."
"Poirot?” Mike scrambled from the bed. “You really know how to crush my ego. Bringing up the competition like that. He probably even has some gray matter left,” he told her with a leer, “but Poirot hasn't spent the last hour and a half in bed with you, and I have."
"Are you saying I loved you senseless?"
Mike nodded, feigning resignation. “Senseless."
"Well, then. Mission accomplished. Take your shower, get dressed, and let's get your show on the road,” she ordered.
She watched as he headed toward her bathroom. “You know,” she called after him, “I don't think I've ever appreciated the male butt before. As a work of art, I mean."
Mike stopped. “What? You think my butt's a work of art?"
Gwyn sighed. “I know this will increase your already tremendous ego, but ... It's pretty much perfect from my vantage point."
He walked toward her with a lazy grin. “Yours is better."
Gwyn glanced over her shoulder into the mirror. “You know, I think you're right. You have five minutes. Get busy."
"All right. I'm going, I'm going."
* * * *
Gwyneth shut the door to her room. “Who forgot to pay the light bill?” she wondered aloud, feeling her way down the hall toward the stairway.
A rush of air warned her—but not soon enough.
She felt the pressure of a firm hand in the middle of her back. Too late. “Wha—?” she yelled as she stumbled. She grappled for balance. Her heel caught on the edge of the rug. “Why—?"
Down she tumbled, head-over-heels. She made a frantic grab for the stair rail.
No use.
She gave up trying to stop her crashing descent. As her body seemed to move in slow motion, the old gymnastic training kicked into gear.
Don't fight it. Go with the fall. She pulled her knees to her chest, tucked in her chin and thumped the rest of the way down the long staircase.
In a sickening fast-forward, her head hit the marble floor. A blinding pain. Then nothing.
Thirty-eight
Elinor Carlton stood in the doorway of her husband's study and watched Paul Winston hand his companion a martini. Normally, she would join her guests, but she was curious about the woman Paul had brought with him.
"Here you go, Lilith. Shaken, not stirred,” he informed the auburn-haired beauty with a sly grin.
"But of course. I wouldn't expect anything less. How was the rest of your afternoon?” she purred.
"Excellent. I had quite a nice ride."
"Was that before or after you left me?"
"Both, my dear."
Good grief. Enough drivel. Elinor cleared her throat and entered the salon. Pasting a smile on her face, she announced, “We'll be quite informal tonight. Dinner will be served on the terrace. Cook has prepared an American-style cookout."
Lilith smiled. “I'm sure it'll be delightful.
"Well, certainly better than last night. I must apologize. I've been so distracted I've been quite remiss as your hostess. But this murder has cast rather a pall over everything."
"Oh,” Lilith Sand replied, “I've been well-entertained, I assure you."
"Yes, I suppose you have.” Anxious to change the subject, Elinor continued, “I understand Gwyneth is your niece."
"Yes. Odd coincidence, isn't it? I haven't seen her in years. She's quite lovely."
"Yes, but do you think she really killed that poor young man?"
"Wouldn't be surprised,” Lilith replied.
"Lilith, really,” Paul protested.
Lilith shrugged off her companion's demur. “Her mother was quite unstable—alcohol, you know. After our younger sister died, Cynthia seemed to fall apart. Everyone knew it wasn't her fault, but my niece had a difficult childhood. Her father was distant, more concerned about his career on Wall Street than his daughter. Of course, now that he's gone, Gwyn is independently wealthy."
"Oh, dear,” Elinor resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I'm afraid I do find the American propensity for discussing money matters quite ill-considered."
Lilith's face flushed, but she kept smiling. “It doesn't hurt to know your son is marrying money, now does it?"
"Now, ladies, please. Let's not argue,” Paul interjected in a futile attempt at playing peacemaker, but Elinor wasn't impressed.
"My son has money in his own right. I'm only interested in his happiness. His first wife was our head gardener's daughter."
"Well, that's ad—” Lilith turned toward the foyer. “What in the world?"
"Bloody hell! Gwyneth's fallen,” Elinor cried, forgetting her upbringing for once. She ran to the young woman's still form and knelt down—never mind her arthritic knees.
"Is she dead?” Lilith asked, looking down, but appearing to Elinor's eyes quite unconcerned.
She glared up at the Sand woman and shivered at the dead brown eyes staring back at her. “That would suit you, wouldn't it?"
"It wouldn't break my heart,” Lilith lifted her shoulders in a shrug.
Bitch. Elinor felt for the young woman's pulse and was relieved to find it bounding and strong.
"Ooh,” Gwyneth moaned and rubbed the back of her head.
"What happened, dear? Did you trip?"
Gwyneth struggled to sit, straightening her legs with a groan. “Damn, I think I've bruised every inch of my body. Where's Mike?” Then she remembered. “He's in the shower—or was. How long was I out?"
"Don't try to stand just yet.” Mike's mother placed a restraining hand on Gwyneth's shoulder. “Not long—mere seconds, if I were to hazard a guess."
"Two concussions in one week. Good thing I have a hard head."
"We'd better take you to hospital,” Lady Elinor suggested again.
"No, I'm all right.” Gwyneth struggled to her feet, then swayed as a wave of dizziness hit. “Whoa."
Lilith's escort jumped to Gwyneth's assistance. “Here, let me help. You'd be better off if you sat down for a while."
She nodded her agreement and allowed Paul Winston to lead her to the sofa in the salon.
"We must at least call a physician to check you, if you won't go to hospital,” Mike's mother insisted forcefully this time.
"No way,” Gwyneth insisted. “I'm not missing tonight."
"What about tonight?” Lilith asked, a frown furrowing her forehead.
Almost let the cat out of
the bag that time. “Well, dinner, you know,” Gwyneth hedged. The arrival of the young housekeeper diverted Aunt Lilith's attention.
"May I help?” the housekeeper asked.
"Yes, Grayson, call that nice, young Dr. Morgan for Gwyneth."
"Yes, ma'am,” the housekeeper replied, “I'll call right now."
"You'll allow Dr. Morgan to look you over, won't you?"
"All right, but I'm not going anywhere—as long as we have that straight."
"Really, you're such a drama queen.” Her aunt needled Gwyneth with a glare. “Most of us couldn't care less."
Lady Elinor's mouth dropped open, but she recovered. “Mrs. Sand, I do not appreciate your speaking to my future daughter-in-law in such a manner."
"She's my niece. I'll speak to her in any fashion I choose. I don't appreciate your interference in our family discussion."
Elinor drew herself to her full height, and with the authority that only centuries of upper-class British breeding can give, said, “This isn't the time or place to air what should be private family grievances."
Paul Winston placed a restraining hand on his companion's arm. “Lilith, let it go. You're just making things worse. Let's take a turn on the terrace."
Gwyn straightened up. “Wait just a damned minute. I didn't fall. Someone pushed me."
"Paranoia reigns supreme in Virginia. I'm afraid you can't blame your clumsiness on me. I was talking to Paul and our gracious hostess when you fell.” Lilith continued with an arrogant sniff, “In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't fall at all, but threw yourself down the stairs in a bid for attention. So pathetic."
* * * *
The sound of raised voices reached Mike as soon as he stepped into the hallway. Taking the stairs two at a time, he rushed down.
By following the disturbance, he found himself at the arched entrance of the salon. There he saw his mother, Paul Winston, the Sand woman—and Gwyn, sitting on the sofa, rubbing the back of her head. His stomach lurched. “What the hell's going on here?” He knelt by Gwyneth. “Are you all right? What happened?"
"Someone brushed past me in the hall and assisted me down the stairs with a well-placed shove."
"Did you see who it was?"
Gwyn shook her head. “No, the light was out. The hall was dark."
The Man For The Job Page 26