by Dee Davis
"The degree of maturity has nothing to do with it, Faust, nor the depth of affection. The end result will always be the same."
"Then why did you agree to work with her?" They weren't talking about Adelaide anymore.
"Because I need her father's help." Marcus sighed. "And because a part of me isn't ready to let her walk away."
Even though in the end, that's exactly what he'd have to do.
Chapter Five
"Adelaide," Marcus screamed, the world gone suddenly black. "Adelaide. "
The dark seeped around him like a woolen cloak threatening to smother him. He fought against it, willing himself to see. It was a dream, he knew that, but it still had the power to hurt him. He had to wake up.
Struggling with the weight of the night, he pulled himself from sleep, struggling to light a candle. Anything to keep the night at bay. He patted at the nightstand trying to find the flint, but his fingers encountered nothing. Frantic now, he searched with both hands, finally locating it, but no amount of striking seemed to work, the darkness growing deeper with every second.
It's only a dream, his mind whispered. But he struggled to light the candle nevertheless. Finally, in desperation he reached for the candle itself. As if in touching the wax he'd somehow be able to conjure the light.
But instead his hand hit brass. Smooth, polished brass. Confused, he swung around to the side of the bed, his mind clearing.
There was no candle.
Only a lamp.
He reached for the switch and the cabin instantly flooded with light. Sweat trickled down his temple, and he brushed it away with an impatient hand. He needed air. Padding naked toward the door, he stopped, remembering that he was not alone, and reached behind him for a pair of sweats.
The air in the passageway was cooler, and as the last vestiges of the dream faded, Marcus fought his anger. Why the hell did he have to relive it all over and over again? Wasn't it enough that he'd gone through it once?
The light in the library beckoned. It was his sanctuary. Except for the hidden galleries at his estate in Monaco, it was the only place he truly found solace. He stepped into the room, stopping short at the sight of Celeste curled in a leather wing chair, still wearing nothing but her shirt.
She had her back turned to him, her attention on the book she held in her hand, an original copy of a work by Galileo.
"How the hell did you get out?" He had the satisfaction of seeing her jump, his anger disproportionate to the crime. But he couldn't help himself. The last thing he needed right now was to see her, half naked, sitting in his library as if she belonged there.
Her startled look turned sheepish, as she twisted to face him, a long, thin filament in her hand.
"Underwire."
He frowned not following the train of her thought.
"From my bra?" She motioned to her chest, now startlingly devoid of secondary reinforcements. As if reading his thoughts, she lifted the book to cover her chest, her cheeks flushed with color. "I don't like being imprisoned."
"I wasn't locking you in, I was ..." The words were out before he could stop them, but he managed at least to cut off the ending. "Pretty resourceful of you," he concluded, trying to keep control of his rioting emotions.
"I've learned a few things along the way." There was definitely underlying meaning in her statement, but he wasn't ready to consider the fact.
"What are you reading?" He nodded toward the book.
"I'm not reading actually. It's in some archaic form of Italian. But the illustrations are amazing. Is this original? It must be worth a fortune."
"I suppose so. I never really thought about it. I've just always liked what the man has to say." He had been considered a fringe lunatic in his day, but even then Marcus had seen the wisdom in his observations.
"You can read this?"
He shrugged, knowing he was treading on treacherous ground. "I speak several languages." Most of them archaic, but there was no need to share the fact.
She frowned, clearly not pleased with his answer, but not willing to push. "You've got an amazing collection here." She waved at the books. "And most of them have your name in them."
"They're my books." It was his turn to frown as he struggled to follow the line of her thought.
"Yes, but, in most of them the ink is quite old. As old as the books actually. And some of them are inscriptions—from the original author." She waited, her look speculative.
He clenched a fist, forcing a calm he didn't feel. "Marcus is a family name, Celeste. The older inscriptions belong to my ancestors. I come from a long line of collectors."
"And a couple pirates, judging from those." She pointed at the bound ship's logs on one of the shelves.
"You've been busy."
"Just interested." She tilted her head, studying him. "I can see you on the high seas."
"There's not much of a place for pirates anymore." He tried but couldn't keep a wistful note from his voice. "Everything is about control these days. At least according to those"—he waved at his logs—"it used to be all about freedom."
"There are still ways to find freedom, Marcus. One just has to look a little harder, that's all." She closed the book, her eyes still narrowed in thought. "Besides, you're not that different from your predecessors."
"How so?" he asked, curious despite himself.
"You can plunder with the best of them. Just look at all the things in this room." She waved toward the Rodin sculpture and his recently acquired Venus. "And I know for a fact that this is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg." Her eyes darkened with memory. She'd been to his estate. Seen his collection. Hell, she'd stolen from it. "If you're any indication, I'd say modern piracy is alive and doing well. Your ancestors would be proud."
"You're not doing so badly yourself. Any pirates in your background?"
"Nope, just good old Georgia farmers, with a couple of blue stockings thrown in for good measure." She traced the gold leaf on the cover of the book with one finger, her mind obviously still working on the similarities between Marcus and his imagined ancestors.
"Why are you still here?" he asked, in an attempt to change the subject before she started connecting the dots. "I'd have thought you’d have hit the water the minute you gained your freedom."
She stared down at the pages of the book. "I figured you were right. That my best shot at finding the ruby was to work with you. At least until the right opportunity presents itself."
"A temporary truce?" He wasn't sure he was ready for it, but she was right, having her along for the ride might prove useful.
She nodded, her eyes still wary. "As long as you don't try to lock me up again."
"I guess it depends on whether you're going to keep trying to run away."
"I wasn't running away. I told you that."
"Right." He nodded, leaning back against his desk, knowing full well that he was goading her.
"Look, I'm not the one who started something they couldn't finish."
He pushed off the desk, crossing over to her in one fluid stride. "I am perfectly capable of finishing what I start, princess. But I'm also equally capable of recognizing when I'm about to make a mistake."
Hurt flashed in her eyes, but was gone before he had time for regret, anger filling the void. "And what the hell makes you think I would have allowed you to continue? You do have a certain kind of charm. I'll admit that." She jumped to her feet, the distance between them only inches now. "But there are two groups of men in the world. The ones a woman can love. And the ones she only wants to sleep with. And believe, me, Marcus, no one would ever mistake you for the happily-ever-after type."
It was exactly what he'd told Faust he wanted. No entanglements. But hearing it from her lips was like a slap in the face.
Hell and damnation.
They stood for a moment staring at each other, the tension between them ratcheting tighter than a mainsail in a gale-force wind.
Her gaze collided with his, her eyes hungry. And with
a little sigh, she threw herself at him, her skin soft against his bare chest. Then her lips found his, her kiss a wicked combination of come-on and surrender. And there was not a force on earth powerful enough for him to resist the attraction. He wanted her. Had wanted her from the moment he'd seen her again.
He opened his mouth, welcoming her inside, reveling in the thrust of his tongue against hers. They parried and dueled, using touch as a silent language, neither advancing or retreating but instead joining together in a tempestuous dance of emotion and sensation.
His hands moved in slow, languid circles across her back, the silky feel of her skin adding fuel to his rising passion. She moved closer, pressing against him until he could feel his throbbing erection against her thigh.
With a groan, he pushed her backward toward the desk, lifting her so that her legs straddled the corner, his mouth crushing hers, drinking her in, his need for her laid bare. She threaded her hands through his hair, pulling him closer, clearly wanting him as much as he wanted her.
Trailing hot kisses down her neck, he pushed back the filmy fabric of her shirt, baring her breasts. Dipping his head, he took one nipple into his mouth, biting softly, her answering moan sending liquid heat coursing through his groin. He circled her aureole with his tongue, then drew it further into his mouth, sucking until she pleaded with him for more.
Happy to comply, he slid his fingers under the elastic of her panties, teasing the soft skin at the juncture of her thighs.
"Please," she whispered, her voice shaking with need. "Please."
Slowly he slid a finger between the satiny folds of her labia, unerringly finding the nub marking the center of her desire. He circled it lazily, still sucking at her breast, her hair draped around his head like a curtain.
Then with a final kiss, he shifted back to her mouth, two fingers sliding deep inside her, his tongue mimicking the rhythm. He fed on her pleasure, the movement of her body against his as she strove to find release.
His mouth and hands possessed her, wanting nothing more now than to give her pleasure, to take her somewhere she had never been before.
She cried in frustration when he released her, but he just smiled, his eyes locked with hers as he knelt beside the desk, pushing open her knees. Her eyes widened, but then with a sigh she opened for him, her tongue moistening her lips as she leaned back to brace herself on her elbows.
He slid down her panties, lifted her left leg over his shoulder, and softly kissed the tender skin of her inner thighs. With a soft cry, she reached for him, urging him forward.
She tasted like the sea, sweet and salty, and he relished the power he felt in taking her to the edge of the precipice. He drove his tongue deep inside her, feeling her contract against him, his penis throbbing in anticipation.
He tasted her, drinking her in, pulling her soul from her body into his. The darkness surrounded them, comforting this time, her hands caressing him as he moved his tongue in and out, in and out, driving her higher and higher, until she lifted off the table, crying his name.
He stood then, gathering her trembling body in his arms, realizing that he too was shivering. But hers was from climax, his was from white-hot need. She rained kisses on his face as he carried her to his cabin, her body rubbing tantalizingly against his erection as they walked.
He pushed open the door and carried her into the room, letting her body slide against his as he released her, the simple touch nearly sending him into climax. The lamplight turned her hair to gold, and she stood for a moment, her eyes wide with question. Then as if some internal battle had been decided, she slid out of her shirt.
For a moment he considered refusing. Knowing that if he allowed himself this pleasure, there would be hell to pay. But she was so beautiful, and he ached for her in a way he had not ached for a woman in so damn many years.
Pushing the door shut, he turned back to her, waiting, knowing the next move had to be hers. She took a step toward him, reaching down to pull his sweats from his hips, her fingers trembling.
He covered his hand with hers. "You're sure."
She nodded.
"You were right, Celeste," he reminded her. "I'm not that kind of man."
"I know," she whispered, reaching up to brush her lips against his. It was a covenant of sorts, though he wasn't completely certain what it was he was agreeing to.
But in truth, he didn't care. And with a groan he pulled her hard against him, accepting what she offered, raising the ante with the fervor of his kiss.
They backed into the room, arms locked around each other, tongues tangling together with need. She slid her hands along the muscles of his chest, the contact setting his synapses on fire.
She teased him then, running her tongue along the edge of his nipple, laughing softly when it tightened under her touch. Then she dropped her hand, stroking first the ridge of his stomach and then the hard length of his penis, squeezing and stroking in a way that threatened to unman him on the spot.
"Bloody hell." The words ripped out of him on a sigh.
And she laughed again, the sound musical. She tightened her hold, the strokes longer now, faster. And he pulled away, swinging her into his arms again, his mouth branding her with his kiss.
He reached the bed and they fell back against the sheets, legs tangling together, as they rolled until she was on top, straddling him. She leaned down, her hair tickling his neck, her lips caressing the rough beginnings of his beard. Then she was everywhere, kissing and exploring, leaving nothing untouched, unloved.
Trembling with the sheer power of the feelings she evoked, he rolled over, pinning her beneath him, wanting nothing more than to feel himself deep within her heat. Catching her gaze, he waited, poised above her.
And she nodded, opening to him, and with one swift move he buried himself deep inside her, the contact beyond all imagination.
There was passion reflected in the depths of her eyes, passion and something else, something so tender it almost took his breath away. Slowly, almost languorously at first, he began to move, each slow thrust tormenting and delighting them both.
With a moan, she arched upward, driving him deeper, and the fury erupted, the storm reaching crescendo. They moved together faster and harder, each stroke ratcheting them upward.
Marcus closed his eyes, and let himself go, surrendering to the moment. Together they moved in a sensual spiral higher and higher until they found release, the climax more amazing than anything he'd ever believed possible.
And in that moment of ecstasy, he held onto the fact that it was his name she called, his body she clung to—his soul she held in her hands.
Chapter Six
"Looks like we're almost there." Marcus stopped near an outcropping of rock, pointing ahead to a farmhouse hugging the side of mountain.
"Well, it certainly doesn't look like the home of a jewel thief." Celeste stopped, too, fighting for breath. This was practically the first time they'd stopped all day. They'd crossed three borders and a mountain range in record time, although having a private plane and then a Jaguar had certainly facilitated their speed.
Celeste couldn't help but be impressed with Marcus's efficiency. Had she tried to reach Austria on her own, she had to admit it would have taken considerably longer and certainly have been done in less comfort. However, the Jag was now sitting at the bottom of the mountain in front of an old barn, the road to the farmhouse too rutted to risk the low-slung vehicle.
Hiking, it seemed, was to be the order of the day.
Marcus started out again, taking the slope as if it were nothing, and she pushed on after him, determined to keep up at all costs. Despite the fact that she'd spent most of the day with the man, they'd hardly talked. At least not about anything consequential. Not that she was surprised. After all Marcus had made it perfectly clear last night that their liaison was temporary.
And even if he hadn't told her as much, his actions would have confirmed the fact. This morning she'd woken to an empty bed. Granted he'd taken the tim
e to retrieve her clothes, leaving them folded neatly on a chair. She'd never claimed he was a cruel man. Just a brutally honest one. But it was clear he'd already moved on, his thoughts centered not on her, but on the quest for the ruby.
She'd found him with her father, discussing the possible hiding places Hans Weisbaum could have devised, the two of them caught up in the chase like little boys playing in their backyard. Only Faust had acknowledged her presence, and that was more disconcerting than anything. The man studied her with an intensity that suggested he was trying to read her mind.
Or see inside her soul.
The whole thing had made her uncomfortable, and if it hadn't been for a need to keep up with what was happening, she'd have been tempted to abandon ship once and for all. But she'd known she was competitive since the day Susie Wheeler had dared her to walk across a pipe spanning the Chatham River. She'd broken her arm and damn near drowned, but she'd persevered and made it across.
Nothing much had changed since then, and she was still determined to come out on top. Which meant she had to get the ruby. Damn Marcus Diablo and whatever it was she was starting to feel for him.
So in truth his lack of emotional involvement was all for the best.
Her father had been searching for the Devil's Delight all of his adult life. Long before Celeste had become his second in command. She'd never understood totally why this particular piece meant so much to him. Perhaps it was the legend, or maybe just the rarity of the jewel itself. Perfect rubies of that size were almost nonexistent.
It certainly wasn't about sharing it with the world. That much she was certain of.
Her father had designed a jewel-encrusted case that had been waiting for its occupant for more than twenty years now. The centerpiece of his collection. A collection that, by necessity, had to be hidden away, since he had no provenance for at least 60 percent of the pieces. But there was obvious joy in his possession.
She'd thought Marcus was the same. But despite the fact that he did own several priceless pieces, she had the feeling that she'd nailed it when she'd accused him of loving the hunt more than acquisition itself.