Sweet Siren: Those Notorious Americans, Book 3

by Cerise DeLand

  "Do you sail?" he asked in that mellow tone that defrosted more of her defenses against him.

  “No. Do you?”

  "I leave that to others."

  "How can that be? You own shipping companies."

  "I do. I've commanded a few smaller vessels in the sixties. But I always had an experienced assistant on board. I know more about how to make them efficient for trade. These days, I let others run them with my instructions. Do you like to sail?"

  "I swim."

  He laughed. "Are you any good?"

  "The very best. My older brother who died young sadly, was a very proficient swimmer. My parents had a country house and on the grounds was a man-made lake. In summer months, I'd sneak out and go with him to swim. My father declared it indecent and it was. I refused, you see, to wear one of those hideous women's swimming outfits."

  "The shirt and the bloomers?"

  "Just so. Scratchy too. And I didn't bother to use our awful bathing machine to travel to the water's edge, either. I loved the excitement of just...well, jumping in."

  "I don't blame you," he said. "Swimming is meant to save your life or enhance it. Best if you can enjoy both. I know. A man who commands a ship must be as able and ready to jump overboard as his seamen."

  The very idea of Killian Hanniford stripped to the waist, bronzed and brave enough to cut through rough waves had her pulse pounding. "Did you have to? Often?"

  "A few times, yes. When I was fourteen, my best friend fell overboard in Baltimore harbor. He hadn't yet learned how to swim well and I went in to collar him and take him to shore. A few times, I've been aboard when we've encountered hurricanes. Days before our civil war broke out, we foundered off the coast of Jamaica. We lost three crewmen."

  "That's sad."

  "It ended badly." He grimaced and looked away from her for a minute, then turned back with interest. "So I'm intrigued about your swims. If you didn't have an outfit, what did you wear?"

  "Ah, well." She blushed and wondered if he could tell in the dark of night.

  "Ha! You're bright red. So you must reveal all."

  She relented. "I borrowed a pair of my brother's falls and cut off my chemise at the hips."

  He roared in laughter. "I'm shocked your mother didn't lock you up and throw away the key."

  "She might have tried, but she was ill." Locked away in her mind.

  "I'm sorry."

  She could not dismiss his sorrow. Had not her mother suffered because of him? "She'd been ill for many years."

  "So then, I see that one thing we must do together is go swimming."

  She looked at him askance. "Impossible."

  "Why?" he asked with a grin.

  "I don't have time."

  "Never?"

  "No. But worse, I still don't have a bathing costume."

  "All the better. Neither do I."

  She broke out in laughter with him. Then she turned and walked on, soothed and excited by his humor.

  "Tell me about your daughter," Killian said and pierced her reverie. "She is poised and very charming. How old is she?"

  "Fourteen. But she's to celebrate a birthday in December when she will turn—I'm certain—forty-two. But she's as lovely inside as out."

  "I'm sure you taught her that."

  She met his quicksilver eyes. "No. Camille came full blown at birth, giving a sigh as if she were quite delighted with herself and the world. She continues in that vein, finding charm in the smallest of things."

  "You encourage her in that, I bet." He frowned at her. "Children do not continue with a love of life unless they have a good example."

  "I'm afraid it was her father who led the way on that one. If he was excessive in his addictions and suffered for them, Camille has learned from that poor example to temper her tendencies to excess."

  She stopped. Why had she revealed so much of David's faults? Honesty was one thing, but to disclose so much of her husband's sorrows was too damning. She put a hand to her brow. "I'm sorry. That was...unnecessary."

  "But honest," he said with a tone of nonchalance.

  She nodded. She'd promised him truth and he got it.

  "Has Camille enjoyed Paris?"

  Liv inhaled, appreciative of Killian's turn to another subject. "She did. Every girl loves a wedding, a romance, and when it is her famous cousin, the sculptor Remy, marrying an American heiress, she can talk of nothing but love and those who must live happily ever after. You see, she fancies herself an author of gothic romances—and I must say, since I've read a few of hers, she's good at it. So coming to Paris gives her fuel for her fires."

  "Why not stay longer?"

  "I must return to London."

  "Duty?"

  "Business." Lack of money. She hurried on. "I love Paris. So different from London and British society. My mother brought me a few times when I was a girl. Now I come for only a few days at a time. To complete my clients' orders. And my visits are necessarily short. But Paris has changed so much lately for the good. I don't know it well."

  "When were you here last for a holiday?"

  "Eight years ago. Just before the war with the Prussians and the terrible siege of the Commune. Andre's mother, the princess, was a godsend to many during that awful time. She fed the orphans, saving hundreds of them. She still does."

  "I didn't know that," he said. "She doesn't speak about it."

  "She wouldn't. Though she's richer by far than many, she uses her money to improve the city."

  "That's what wealth is intended to do," he said with a conviction that had her questioning her previous assumptions of him.

  She halted, surprised and intrigued by his praise. "You believe that?"

  "I do." He examined her for a long minute, then shook his head. "You thought I was a fiend who created wealth to horde it?"

  She tipped her head. "I know few who believe otherwise."

  He snorted. "You haven't met the right people."

  "I should meet more like you." Though I think you are one of a kind.

  "That or get to know me better."

  "To that I have agreed, good sir." Good heavens, was she being coy with him?

  He grinned. "You mentioned clients. Are any of them trolls who horde money?"

  "A few." She rolled her eyes. "After they part with much of it somewhat reluctantly I might add, to feather their nests."

  "And you help them with this 'feathering'?"

  "I do. Tomorrow morning, I have an appointment with the manager of the Sèvres factory."

  "The makers of porcelain?"

  "Yes. I acquire the best in the world for the richest in the world. I commission complete table services for my clients. Often times, the design is original to them. Their motto or their crest baked in."

  He arched a brow, in feigned humor. "You consult others on their dinner plates?"

  "On their dining rooms, their furniture, their draperies," she said, loving that she astonished him. She stopped at a statue of some military man whose pose resembled that of Napoleon in Canova's infamous portrait. Hand tucked in his buttoned coat, the soldier had donned the same placid expression as his emperor. She admired this living man before her, this new emperor of industry, so much more handsome than either the French leader or his follower. "I consult most often with one architect on the construction of his clients new homes."

  "Is that profitable?"

  "For me? I daresay I am building a reputation for it."

  "And increasing your fee as your prestige grows?"

  She wrinkled her nose. "Why not?"

  He lifted his chin, his profile strong and straight and true. "Spoken like a shrewd business person."

  She waved a hand. "I'll take that compliment from a man who is termed shrewd."

  He snorted. "Shrewd on a good day. Ruthless on all others. Am I right?"

  He was. But she would not say that and once more be rude to him. "Perhaps they do not know you well."

  "Or know me too well," he murmured. "And of your clients,
have you any Americans?"

  "I do."

  "Would I be a potential client?"

  Her heart hammered. "Many men now seek to cement their status in society by building homes that rival the aristocrats."

  He looked out to one of the flat-bottomed bateaux as it serenely sailed past them. The wind picked up and ruffled a shock of his midnight hair, making him appear impossibly young and debonair. "I've contemplated doing that very thing. I've looked at plots of land, but found nothing yet that speaks to me of home."

  Most men purchased land in a heat. On a whim. For cheap. Or to impress. Killian Hanniford, Irish immigrant, self-made millionaire, blockade runner and robber baron, wanted land that spoke to him of home and hearth. Admiration for him flooded her veins—and the part of her that shunned the scoundrel in him sat quiet, stunned.

  She walked a few steps away from him, irritated with herself, trying to recover her composure. "Do you plan to stay in Europe for long periods?"

  "I do."

  Thrills of delight that she might see him often ran up her spine. "Then you might do well to plan a house. Land sells for a penny. Many like your son-in-law have inherited terrible problems from their fathers who were poor stewards of their estates. They're in debt to their eyeballs and cannot get out. They must sell any unentailed land or any asset that might bring them cash."

  "That I well know. Julian has had to sell some of his assets to make ends meet. My financial adviser here in Paris tells me of two estates in England up for sale. I hesitate to buy them, though."

  She had thought him unprincipled. How many ways could he disabuse her of that idea? "Why is that? If I may ask?"

  "If I've been painted as 'ruthless', with my daughter married to a duke and my niece married to a prince and leader of the artistic community, I do not wish to continue that portrait. To buy land for a low price would endear me to no one."

  Dear god. He has ethics even on the price of land? "True. But do consider, in your case, you're poised to change your own rank and perception. The purchase of the late duke of Seton's shares in his railroad did put you high on the social register in England. And I understand you negotiate with the Parisian Rothschilds to construct chemical plants in the north near Amiens."

  He paused before her, his gaze probing and intimate. "You know a lot about me. How is that?"

  She shrugged as if to indicate her knowledge of him was to be expected. But she had followed his achievements for years in newspapers. "You are a new element in our universe. Your businesses, your past, your family and future are all detailed in the papers. Killian Hanniford, former Confederate blockade runner turned industry titan. Father to three equally daring children and a charming niece. One of 'those notorious Americans' who've come abroad to sweep all vestige of the past away and create new worlds with your money and your optimism."

  He scowled at the gently flowing river. "You really do have a poor opinion of me."

  She would not lie to him.

  "Come now. I hear it in your words."

  "Yes, you're right. I did have a negative opinion. But...it changes." God help me.

  "For the better, I hope."

  "What you should hear is my applause for your boldness and your skills." That was true. He was aggressive. That she did revere. She'd known so few men who had the courage to name what they wanted and found the means to take it. She huddled into her cape to cut the wind and to find warmth when she had been too honest and turned their conversation chilly. "I apologize. I do not mean to be combative."

  "You've spoken your mind. I like that."

  "You must deal with some very irreverent businessmen if you think my conversation has been kind. You've been a gentleman and I've been rather a witch. I'm embarrassed and sorry."

  "Don't be."

  "You're gallant, too. Meanwhile, I dislike my own bad manners and prefer being proud of myself." She took a few steps toward his coach. "Perhaps we should climb into your carriage and end the night."

  "We can. First, agree to swim with me in England."

  "What? No." She giggled at how he turned the tables on her. But then, she rather liked the idea of swimming with him. Where? "Oh, all right. When?"

  "When I return to London in December."

  "December? So will this be an ice bath?"

  He donned a rogue's grin and undid her good sense. "Dine with me in December. Swim with me in May."

  She struggled with a grin. "If you're hoping I'll wear cotton drawers and a muslin chemise, you are very mistaken."

  "A man can dream. Besides, we're becoming friends." He stepped close to her, the moonlight limning his hair and his rugged complexion. "Wear what pleases you."

  What would please her would be to wear absolutely nothing. How many years had it been since she wanted a sexual encounter? The very idea had been leeched out of her by the limited circumstances of her marriage. Dear heavens. She should leave. Avoid him. "That would be dangerous."

  "I'm up to the challenge."

  Dare she succumb to his charm? "Mister Hanniford, must you tame all the animals who nip at you?"

  He cupped her cheek, his fingers drifting back ever so gently into the hair above her ear. "I try."

  She gave a little laugh, but flowed more securely into his large hand. His palm was warm and moved, full of fond regard. How could he be so sweet, so tempting when the only trait she'd ever heard of him was his utter disregard for others?

  "You now have a dilemma," he said to her in a gruff voice that fueled the fires of her desire for him.

  She closed her eyes as he stroked the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "Which is?"

  "Open your eyes, Olivia."

  "Liv."

  "Liv," he said her name like a prayer. "You must choose."

  "What?" she asked as he wrapped one massive arm around her and nestled her against the bulwark of his body.

  "To kiss me or not."

  "And if I don't?" she said, her voice a hollow wreck.

  "We will be friends," he told her as he put his thumb to the center of her lower lip and rolled it down.

  "And if I do?" Her breath gone, her mind followed.

  "We will be good friends."

  She clutched him close. Desire was new to her. Passion a glittering land she'd never explored. "You tempt me."

  "I know." His silver eyes flashed in the gas light. "What will you do with all that temptation?"

  Seize it. She rose on her toes and brushed her lips on his. Could heaven be this tender, wild and mad?

  "Liv, look at me."

  "No. I'd rather do this." She slanted her lips across his and drifted into enchantment. This was what she craved. Him. She pulled away, her gaze on his, shocked.

  "Liv," he beseeched her, "come kiss me again."

  A ravenous sound escaped her and she kissed him with all the need he inspired in her. She held him tightly, fighting to encompass the massive strength that denoted his personality and his power. She broke away.

  But he dragged her back and she kissed him with hunger. His tongue invaded her mouth and she allowed the heady claim. Bending her over his arm, he groaned and took the lead to kiss her once and then again. She managed a hand around his nape, his thick satin hair clutched in her fingers. His kisses grew demanding, wild. Her responses raw and needy.

  He broke away with a start and she nestled her face into the wealth of his heavy wool cape. She heard him swallow hard and gasp for air.

  This kind of affection was so new to her, so foreign. This was the stuff of a young girl's dreams. Or romances such as Camille wrote. About a man's kisses and embraces, the yearning for more, never to end. Naive, baseless fantasies. None of them realistic.

  He put his lips to her forehead. "I'd like to kiss you again, but I doubt I'd live beyond the moment."

  She pressed against him, words escaping her. What madness was this to want her arch-enemy with such ardor? She'd lived nearly half her life decrying who he was, how he lived, what he did and here she stood, in his fast e
mbrace, caring only that he kiss her again and give her more of himself?

  He stepped backward, his hands cupping her shoulders steadying her. On his face stood compassion like she'd never known. Desire like she'd never seen.

  That too was unbelievable. A childish dream. Not meant for a woman of thirty-seven.

  He glanced at the sky and bent to sweep her up into his arms.

  She laughed, one arm around his shoulders. "Hanniford, you are a scoundrel."

  He kissed her cheek. "But you like me."

  God forgive me. "I do."

  "Now," he said as he made his way along the quai toward his coach, "I call that a good day's work."

  Chapter 5

  Boulevard Haussmann

  Paris

  Julian walked into the breakfast room the next morning just as Killian was finishing his coffee.

  "You seem chipper," Julian said, smiling at Killian as he strolled to the sideboard and picked up a plate. "Enjoyed yourself last night with Lady Savage, I gather."

  An understatement. Her wild kisses. Her surrender. Her laugh. Her humor. Her eloquence at the piano to render the compositions of Chopin. Killian liked nearly everything about her. Except the puzzling reason why she initially evaded him and with such antipathy, too. "I did. She's intriguing."

  Julian surveyed the dishes, uncovering one tureen and then another. "She's a bit of a mystery to us all. Seems a good sort."

  "Fine company." Killian didn't intend to break his vow that his relationship with her be unremarkable in the eyes of society. His family as well.

  "I liked her too. Last night was the most time I've ever spent in her company, even though she's a distant relative of my mother's. And of Remy's family, too."

  "I don't recall her attending yours and Lily's wedding."

  "I believe an engagement of some urgency prevented her." Julian closed the domed lid on a tureen and strolled to the table to sit next to him. "She works, I think."

  Killian wondered what Julian might share about Liv. "She told me she consults on house decoration."

  "Is that so? Well, good for her. My cousin, Lord Burnett, knows her much better than I."