Jimmy’s mouth worked for a moment without sound. Then he managed to speak. “Sir, it’s kind, but I can’t accept more from you—”
“Nonsense. Any man can accept a wedding dinner from another. Come along while the night is young. Neither Marissa nor I would want to intrude upon too much of this special time, yet neither would we have you begin this new life without proper celebration. Eh, Marissa?”
Was he serious, or was he taunting her? What was his game? His eyes were still filled with fury when he touched her. His grip was tight with tension.
“Marissa?”
“Of course,” she murmured.
He was always in control, she thought. On the street he quickly hailed a cab and asked the driver to take them to an exclusive but expensive club near Parliament, one that was patronized by members of the royal family. Jimmy did not know the name. Mary’s eyes widened. “Mr. Tremayne, you needn’t—”
“Mary, indulge me,” he said.
Soon they were at the club. The doors to the hansom were opened for them, and Ian was lifting Marissa down. A doorman swept them into the club, greeting Ian by name. He spoke with the maître d’, and they were quickly led to a table in a private room.
Potted palms adorned the room. The chairs were huge, elegant with carved lions’ feet. The table was covered in snowy white linen, and the flatware upon the table was golden while the wineglasses were of the finest crystal. Soft light shimmered from candles in a chandelier.
Ian seated Marissa. Jimmy did a fair job of imitating him as he seated Mary. Ian ordered rack of lamb from the waiter, who obviously knew him. And champagne.
When the champagne came, Ian lifted his glass to Mary and Jimmy.
“To a lifetime of health and happiness!” They all sipped champagne.
“Aye, and thank you!” Jimmy exclaimed, leaping to his feet to toast in kind. “And to you, sir, and to Marissa! A lifetime of—”
He choked at the end, realizing that there was really little to wish them. The slow, taunting curve came to Ian’s lip, and he lifted his glass to Marissa. “A lifetime of wealth,” he murmured, “and health and happiness, too, of course.”
Marissa smiled coolly. “Thank you so very much.”
He turned from her with a shrug and spoke to Jimmy. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a parcel of documents, which he handed to Jimmy. “Tickets, transfer points, the address and phone number for my home in San Francisco, everything you might need, I hope. I plan on being at the train station when you arrive, but should something prevent me, a carriage or a car will meet you.”
Jimmy nodded gravely, accepting the packet. “Thank you, Mr. Tremayne. Thank you.”
“Ah, another toast!” Ian said. He lifted his glass again. “To a long and prosperous business relationship between us!” he said.
“Hear, hear!” Mary cried, delighted.
Ian filled the glasses. Marissa discovered that she was acquiring quite a taste for champagne. It went down so easily, and it smoothed out the rough edges of discomfort and unease.
And fear! she thought unhappily. He had come so very close to seeing the name on Mary’s wedding papers today!
Ah, but he hadn’t really thought to look at them. He didn’t suspect. He thought he remembered Marissa at times, but he didn’t realize she had been the maid in the shadows or the child in the mining village. And still, tonight, each time he glanced her way, she knew he was condemning her for the one minor lie he had caught her in …
Her glass was empty. He filled it. She felt the sharp probe of his blue eyes, and lowered her lashes to study her crystal glass.
The food was brought and it was delicious. Marissa was saved from much conversation, for Ian questioned Jimmy, and Jimmy talked about Ireland, and wool—he knew wool very well. Ian told him how alike San Francisco and London could be at times, blanketed in fog, mysterious, beautiful. And through the fog you could see the bridge and the bay, and the houses with their gingerbreading and pastels and colors, and they were beautiful. Marissa listened to him, and was suddenly afraid again.
She didn’t want to leave England. She didn’t want to sail the distance of an ocean, then travel across a continent.
She looked up. Ian was watching her again. She flushed slightly, and her lashes lowered.
She toyed with dessert. The check was signed, and they were soon out on the street. “I’ll hail you a cab,” Ian said to Jimmy. “And see Marissa to her rooms.”
She glanced up, startled, then realized that Jimmy and Mary were married. Legally. Naturally Ian presumed that Mary would be staying with Jimmy. But the thought of being left alone with Ian terrified her.
“Oh, but it’s early yet!” she said hurriedly. “Perhaps they’d like to return to my suite for a while.”
“For more champagne?” Ian asked politely.
How much champagne had she already swallowed, she wondered. Not enough. She felt dizzy, and guessed she would have a headache later, but at least she felt a little more capable of dealing with him.
“Champagne, sherry, conversation—” she began.
“They are true newlyweds, my dear. And surely seek their privacy,” he said. He lifted his hand and flagged down a hansom.
There was nothing Marissa could do. She quickly hugged Mary, not wanting to let her go. She kissed Jimmy, and perhaps clung to him too long.
Ian’s arms disentangled her. “I’ll see you in America!” he called to Jimmy.
“Aye, sir, in America!” And the bay horse pulling the cab clip-clopped into the night.
“Come on,” Ian said roughly. He tugged Marissa’s arm and she saw that a second cab was awaiting them.
“I can see myself to the suite,” she said with what casual aplomb she could manage.
“You can scarcely walk,” he said flatly, “and I wouldn’t dream of allowing my dear wife to travel the streets of London alone.”
He lifted her up and set her into the cab, then climbed up beside her, calling the address to the driver. They didn’t speak but she felt the warmth of him beside her, the flex and movement of his every muscle. She felt the tension that had stayed with him, no matter how smooth his manner, since he had seen her in the church.
They came to her suite. When she had entered the parlor she tried to turn swiftly and thank him for the meal and for escorting her back.
He none too gently pressed her forward, entering determinedly behind her, then closing the door behind himself.
Marissa swept off her cape and moved into the room, dropping the cape upon the settee. Ian leaned against the door, his blue gaze searing.
She fought the champagne, for it was making her dizzy, and her vision was blurry. Perhaps it was for the best, when he stared at her so.
No! She needed her wits to deal with him.
She yawned extravagantly. “Really, Mr. Tremayne, it is late—”
“You were just saying that it was early.”
“But I am suddenly so exhausted.”
“Well, exhausted or no, Mrs. Tremayne, you’ve an explanation to make, haven’t you?”
“Have I?”
“About your newlywed friends.”
She shrugged. “I don’t—”
“You lied to me about them.”
“It seemed easier to introduce them as man and wife. I knew they were marrying the next day. Why on earth are you so angry about them?” she demanded, determined not to show her fear.
“Oh, I’m not angry about them at all,” he said softly.
“Then?” she murmured.
He moved into the room at last. He was stalking her, she thought. She moved back. A quivering seized her. She was angry; she was uncertain.
And she knew that he was going to touch her, corner her and touch her and hold her to his whim. It was in his stride, in his eyes. And she shivered because she did not know if she despised the idea …
Or anticipated it.
“Then …?” she repeated on a n
ote of desperation.
“Then …”
She was backed against the wall. He laid a hand flat on either side of her head, imprisoning her without touching her, except with that blue fire in his eyes.
“What I want to know, my dear Marissa, is just what else you’ve lied about to me.”
“Really, there’s nothing—”
“I will have the truth, Marissa. And I will have it tonight.”
Chapter Six
“I haven’t lied to you about anything else!” Marissa protested. She slipped away quickly, moving around the room to keep a distance between them. Coming to the little silver tray with the decanters of brandy and sherry and whiskey, she paused, pouring out a snifter of brandy. She needed to be very calm. “Would you like something?” she asked him politely.
“Yes, I’d like the truth.”
She sipped the brandy, studying him over the rim of the glass. “Your Yankee manners are atrocious, Mr. Tremayne.”
He moved toward her. She swallowed the contents of the brandy glass, and it was suddenly plucked out of her hands. “Have I married a little drunkard as well as a cunning little liar?”
“A drunkard!”
“Lady, you’ve had enough champagne today to sink a ship.”
“How dare you! You Yankee—”
“Yeah, yeah, us Yanks. It’s been like this ever since we finally won that war in 1812.”
She tried to move away, but he caught her arm. His touch was forceful, but not painful. She could feel his determination. She wasn’t going to escape him again.
“Let’s talk,” he said flatly.
She didn’t have much of an opportunity to resist; she found herself sitting on the settee with him beside her. Close beside her. His eyes blazed into hers.
“Let’s have it, Marissa.”
She raised her eyes to his. He was so damned determined! She suddenly wanted to spit out the truth and beg for mercy.
No. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her. The truth could do nothing for any of them now.
Jimmy and Mary were legally wed.
And she was wed to this man.
She shook her head, allowing her lashes to fall over her eyes. Dear God, she should have left the brandy alone. The champagne had been bad enough. And she needed so desperately to be in control.
Especially tonight. Some fierce fever burned in Ian Tremayne tonight. His eyes seemed ringed with it, both fire and ice, burning hot one minute and cold the next. She’d seen him gentle, tender, amused and angry, but never so tense as this.
All because she had lied to him.
But the life she was living was a lie, and there was no way out of it, no way to tell him the truth. There was nothing to do but play her part, that of the spoiled and willful child of a very rich man.
She stared at him, chin high, eyes level. “I’m sorry that you are so affronted over such a very minor thing as the precise hour and date of a marriage.”
“A lie is never a minor thing, Marissa.”
“This one was,” she insisted. “I knew that Jimmy and Mary would be married, and I wanted you—to accept them as man and wife. I couldn’t have left here without them, you see.”
“Your lives are so entwined, then? I’m curious. How?”
His eyes were maddening. So dark, so blue, so demanding. She felt pinned to the settee. Desperate. She didn’t like the feeling. The warmth emanating from his body encompassed her. The clean scent of his soap hinted warmly of the man’s masculinity, and the soft feathering of his breath when he spoke touched upon her face. The sensations were pleasant. She suddenly wanted to laugh and touch his face, no matter how hard and forbidding that face.
It was the champagne, she thought. Do not touch, for he bites!
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the settee.
“Tell me about these very good friends of yours, Marissa.”
“I can’t. I’m quite exhausted. I need you to leave. I shall explain everything that you desire at some later time.”
“Will you?”
“Indeed.”
“I think not.”
He caught her hands and pulled her up. Her eyes flew open, blazing with fury. “If you were any kind of British gentleman—”
“Well, I’m not. I’m not British at all. What I am is a Yank, remember, and therefore, according to you, my manners are by nature atrocious.”
“All right, all right!” She snatched her hands free from his and leaped to her feet. There was a sudden blackness before her and she wavered. She caught hold of an oak table to remain standing. “Her father, Mary’s father, was the vicar of our parish. As children, we were very good friends. And not long after her father died, she came to live with us. It’s very simple, sir!” she announced scornfully.
“And Jimmy?”
“And Jimmy?” Marissa found that she was smiling slowly. “Why, she met him, and she fell in love with him. There’s no mystery there, Mr. Tremayne.”
“Ah, but your life seems to be shrouded in mystery, Mrs. Tremayne,” he taunted softly.
“It’s quite amazing that you should feel so, sir,” she said sweetly.
“I want to know what else you’ve lied about,” he returned.
“I’ve told you—”
“And I’ve warned you,” he snapped.
She meant to walk by him very smoothly. Chin high, shoulders square—with a firm upper lip. But she had barely moved from the table when the swamping dizziness came over her again. She tripped—she was rather certain that she tripped right over his foot. The next thing she knew she was falling and, reaching out, she came in hard contact with his chest.
He half rose to catch her, then her impetus threw them onto the settee, her fingers curled into his starched white shirt, her body draped across his lap. His arms had wrapped instinctively around her to break the fall. Startled, she gazed into the blue depths of his eyes. She meant to jump quickly away, but she could not. She suddenly seemed to be enveloped in the strength and scent of the man, and in the power of his eyes. She did not move at all, but met his gaze. Heat seared through her. A sweet trembling began in her stomach and traveled like wildfire to her limbs. Delicately she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, seeking to speak, to break the curious hold.
And she was suddenly certain that he meant to speak, too. But he did not. Not really. Instead an oath shattered the air, and he bent down to her. He was going to kiss her again, she thought. She should rise, protest.
Instead she awaited the touch of his mouth. The sensations were again spiraling wildly through her. Something molten, something delicious, churned deeply within her. She had felt his kiss before. And she anticipated it now.
It was the champagne. Or the brandy. She could not think.
Or perhaps …
It was just the man.
And then his lips touched hers, forming over them with a practiced and fierce demand. Hot and moist and so very sure, they drank in the fullness of her mouth, touching, invading, exploring, eliciting more fervent sensations to swirl and play wickedly within her blood. She felt again the urge to touch him, and this time she did, her fingers uncurling from his shirt front to touch his cheek and feel the texture of his bronzed flesh. She pressed closer against him, instinctively responding to the overwhelming sensuality of the man. Some small voice warned her that she was catapulting into danger with a stranger, with the enemy. But intelligent thought had long since eluded her. She felt only the sweep of his tongue, the molding of his lips, the pressure of his hands, holding her leisurely to his will.
His lips parted from hers.
“Indeed, madam, what other lies have you spoken?”
She fought his grip suddenly, furious, her head reeling.
“None!”
She struggled to rise, slamming her fist against his chest. “None! I am weary, I am exhausted, and you plague me endlessly while you pretend that we can live amicably in the same house. Please! I am too tired—”
�
�You are too drunk,” he said dryly.
“Oh! And you didn’t drink champagne as if it were water yourself!”
“I did not drink champagne out of fear.”
“I am not afraid of you.”
“You are afraid of some truth, and yes, Marissa, therefore you are afraid of me. Very much afraid of me.”
“Oh!”
He released her and she leaped to her feet, pointing dramatically at the door. “Tremayne, we shall speak of this some other time, I tell you!”
She started for the door, but he stood and caught her arm. “We’ll speak of it now! And take care, madam, that you never again show me a door before we are finished.”
She heard his words, but she was suddenly too weary to fight him. She fell into his arms. Her eyes closed and she clung to his shoulders. She groaned softly. “Please, I cannot stand.”
“You will stand. It’s all a trick with you!”
“No!” she whispered. “No. This is no trick.”
He carried her to the settee and set her down on it. He leaned over her, and though she had allowed her eyelashes to drift softly closed over her eyes, she was suddenly aware that he was concerned. She had told him the truth, her knees had buckled, and she had been able to stand no longer. But now she realized that perhaps this was the best game to play with him.
Her lashes fluttered open and she discovered that he was studying her intensely. She found herself returning his gaze, unable to look away. His left hand lay upon her hip while his right hand sat upon her shoulder and his face was close, bronzed, tense, close. She inhaled the clean scent of the man and felt the sudden rush of his breath against her cheek. She wanted to look away; she could not. A sweet cascade of sensation suddenly ran throughout her limbs, hot where he touched her and hot where his eyes seared into hers. It swept her breath away, and caused her heart to quicken its pace until she could feel the maddening pulse within her mind.
“Leave me—” she started to murmur, but her voice broke off for she realized that he was going nowhere.
His mouth was slowly descending upon hers.
His kiss was not gentle. No, not gentle at all.
His lips seared hers with a simmering anger just barely held in check. He did not hurt her, nor did he allow her any room for escape. There was force behind his touch, and still …
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