“I need to question your father,” he said at last, meeting her gaze. “When can you arrange a meeting?”
“How many times must I tell you? My father had nothing to do with Emmaline’s death.”
“Then let me prove that. If he’s innocent, a few diplomatic questions shouldn’t be that big of a deal.”
“You, sir, are an ill-mannered oaf who doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘diplomatic’!” Lettitia exclaimed. “Earlier today, I watched as you bullied Sir Willoughby with your brash overtures and crude insinuations. I will not have you interrogate my father in a like manner.”
Mick abruptly set his whiskey glass on the table. The amber-colored liquid sloshed over the rim. He then strode over to her.
“Last night, you seemed to like my ‘brash overtures’ just fine,” he said in a husky voice. “And as far as my ‘crude insinuations’ go, I think they made you downright ecstatic. Or maybe you need a reminder.” Snatching hold of her wrist, Mick brought her hand to his mouth. Without warning, he inserted her forefinger into his mouth and suckled her, the explicitly carnal display shocking Lettitia beyond words.
An instant later, she yanked her finger out of his mouth… just before she soundly smacked him on the cheek with her open palm.
“So, that’s how you want to play it, huh? Fine by me,” he growled. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he pulled her into his arms.
“How dare—”
Smashing his lips against hers, Mick smothered the protest.
* * *
The instant he hauled Lettitia into his arms, Mick knew there would be hell to pay.
Yeah, okay, he’d overreacted. But hearing Lettitia call him an “oaf” in her Masterpiece Theatre voice had ticked him off to no end. And having her slap him in the face only added insult to injury. Or maybe it was the other way around. Anyway, he was just gonna lock lips with her for a little bit and let her know who was the boss man.
At least that had been the plan. Right up until the moment when Lettitia stopped struggling. A few seconds later, when Lettitia began to respond, shyly opening her mouth to him, Mick offered up a quick Thank You prayer to the powers that be.
When, a few seconds after that, she whimpered softly and locked her arms around his neck, he knew that he was a goner.
How long they stood there frantically kissing one another, Mick couldn’t say. Long enough for him to start thinking thoughts that he had no business thinking—like how much he’d like to strip off her Mary Poppins dress, spread her out on a big, fluffy bed, and boink her senseless. Which would never happen—she was engaged to be married and he was leaving town in a few days. But, hey, you couldn’t blame a man for wishful thinking.
Figuring that, if he was going to torture himself, he might as well do it right, Mick slid his hands down over Lettitia’s backside. Palming the rounded curves of her buttocks, he pulled her into his erection.
To his stunned amazement, Lettitia writhed against him.
A strangled moan caught in Mick’s throat. He’d taken the kiss too far. It was time to pull back before things got way out of hand.
With that thought in mind, he reluctantly moved his hands to a less compromising position. As he started to disengage his lips from Lettitia’s mouth, she slipped her hands under his unbuttoned shirt and shoved it off his shoulders. No sooner had she done that than she moved her hands over his butt.
Mick’s heart slammed against his chest.
In his book, the shirt removal combined with the hand-on-butt maneuver could only mean one thing.
Opening his eyes, Mick cased the small study, scoping his options. The gold-colored lounge chair would have to do. While he had some doubts as to it being large enough, if he took the time to find a bed, Lettitia might change her mind.
Please, God. Please don’t let her change her mind.
Still kissing her like a mad man, Mick backed Lettitia right up to the lounger, not stopping until the backs of her knees bumped against it. She gave a startled yelp when he nudged her backward, following her down on top of it. Unfortunately, the move caused a bolt of pain to radiate along his injured ribcage.
Mick shuddered, unable to suppress an agonized grunt.
“You’ve hurt yourself!” Lettitia exclaimed.
Given that he was sprawled across her body, alarmed concern wasn’t the key note that Mick wanted to strike.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, the pain in his ribs replaced with another kind of pain lower down. “Listen, Tisha. I’m just gonna come right out and say it… I want to make love to you.”
The confession met with a funerary silence. As the clock on the fireplace mantle loudly clicked the seconds—tick… tock… tick… tock—Mick suddenly worried that he’d misread the signals. And then.… wonder of wonders, Lettitia tremulously smiled at him.
“Yes,” she whispered, framing his face between her hands as she softly kissed him on the lips.
Christ. She actually said yes.
Mick wanted to whoop with joy. Instead, he did what he’d dreamed of doing since he’d first seen her at the Ninety-fourth precinct—he molded his hands over her breasts. Soft and full, they filled his hands. Acting out of primal instinct, Mick then caressed her with his mouth. Even though Lettitia was still fully clothed, he could feel the hardened nub of her nipple against his lips.
Lettitia gasped, her fingers scoring a path over his bare shoulders.
Anxious to find out if she had big, half-dollar-sized nipples or small, pert raspberries, he moved his fingers to the top of her dress.
And then it hit him.
He had absolutely no idea how to get her garments off, never having contended with such an intimidating array of buttons, bows, and fasteners. In fact, he wasn’t even sure where to start.
Ah, the hell with it.
She could keep her clothes on. He’d work around the cumbersome outfit. Later, they could get naked.
This being their first time, Mick knew that he should take it slow and easy, giving Lettitia an extended round of nipple-sucking, ear-nibbling foreplay. He knew that. In his head and, yes, even in his heart, he knew that. The problem was, it’d been so long since he’d last had sex, he was about to burst through his pants, a certain organ begging—no, demanding—immediate release.
Finagling a hand under Lettitia’s skirt, he nearly groaned in out and out frustration when he encountered some kind of long cotton underwear that completely encased her legs. Determined to find out what the hell he was contending with, he flipped her skirts to her waist.
Un-frigging believable.
Her ruffled long johns were crotchless. With a hand on each of her thighs, Mick pried her legs apart, needing to see her… smell her… taste her. Needing to smear her tangy juices on his lips, his tongue, over his entire mouth.
“No, you mustn’t,” Lettitia balked, trying to clamp her legs together.
“Don’t go shy on me, Tisha. Please. Don’t you know how beautiful you are down there?”
Wide-eyed, she stared at him. Her pupils were so dilated that her eyes were more black than gray. “I… I’ve never been with… with a man.”
Hearing her hesitant confession, Mick’s breath caught in his throat. He’d already guessed that she was a virgin, but hearing her confirm it caused his heart to thump with some heady emotion that he couldn’t quite name. Awe, maybe. Awe that she’d picked him to be the first.
He gazed at the tender pink flesh exposed by the slitted opening of her undergarments.
Oh, yeah. Awe is definitely the right word.
“Have you ever touched yourself?” Seeing the baffled look on her face, he clarified and said, “Between your legs.”
“Good heavens, no!” Lettitia exclaimed, her cheeks turning crimson red.
From her appalled expression, Mick deduced that Lettitia had never had an orgasm.
“Then you’re in for a treat,” he whispered, gently rubbing his index finger over her damp folds.
The instant he touched her, Lett
itia whimpered. As he continued to touch her, she undulated against his hand, her responsiveness an incredible turn-on. When he rubbed the pad of his thumb over her clit, she bucked beneath him, grabbing at his wrist. Unless he was greatly mistaken, she was about to have an orgasm in record time. Good thing. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out, her virginal ardor putting him in some serious below-the-belt pain.
Gauging that she was close, he plunged a finger inside of her. Lettitia rolled her head from side to side.
“Just imagine how good it’s gonna feel when I put my cock inside of you.”
“Yes. Please, Mick. Do it now,” she panted, lifting her hips in invitation. Despite being a virgin, Lettitia had to be the most naturally seductive woman he’d ever encountered.
“Not yet,” he crooned, moving his finger in and out of her in a slow, steady rhythm. “Not until you come.”
“I can… assure you that… I am not… going… anywhere.”
“Trust me, sweetheart. You are most definitely going to go somewhere.”
“I don’t under—”
“Don’t worry,” he interjected, slipping a second finger inside of her. “You’ll know when you get there.”
Which happened about ten seconds later. Digging her nails into his arm, Lettitia’s entire body went rigid as her eyes rolled to the back of her head. In true ladylike fashion, she didn’t utter a peep. When her orgasm finally ran its course, Mick, deeply moved, saw that there were tears in her eyes.
“How was that?”
“Wonderful,” she murmured, a dazed look on her face.
“It gets even better,” he assured her as he quickly unbuttoned his pants. Pulling himself free from the restraining fabric, he smeared his fingers over his erection, lubricating himself with her juices.
“Good heavens,” Lettitia gasped, staring at his swollen organ. You are quite… prodigious.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t—” He was about to say, “I won’t hurt you,” but knowing she was a virgin, he thought that would more than likely prove a lie. No matter how gentle he was, he was bound to cause her some pain.
Situating himself between her legs, Mick slowly began to push into her. He didn’t get far before Lettitia bucked against him, her post-climatic bliss giving way to a panicked frenzy.
Suddenly thinking that slow might not be the way to go, Mitt gritted his teeth and thrust.
In that same instant, Lettitia opened her mouth to scream.
Without thinking, he covered her mouth with his, muffling the pain-wracked sob as best he could and feeling like the very oaf she’d earlier accused of being. Having pushed through her virginal membrane with that one mighty thrust, he knew that he needed to give her time to adjust. As he continued to kiss her, he hoped—prayed—she understood that he hadn’t meant to hurt her.
Moments later, feeling Lettitia’s hand hesitantly move across his shoulder, Mick raised himself onto his forearms. Spellbound, he gazed into her beautiful gray eyes, losing himself. For one glorious, mind-altering moment, they were both acutely aware that they were joined in the most intimate, profound way that two human beings could be joined. In that instant, Mick experienced something vast and deep and—
And then he remembered.
Shit, I forgot to put on a condom.
Cursing under his breath, he reached for the frock coat slung over the back of the lounge chair, having earlier put the package of Lambert’s Paragon Sheaths in his pocket.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Lettitia nervously inquired.
“I need to put on a—”
He froze in mid-motion, hearing voices just outside the closed study door.
“Where the devil did I put my pince-nez?” he heard Phidias grumble loudly.
As the door knob began to turn, Lettitia gasped. Mick put a hand over her mouth to silence her.
“Sir, I believe that you left it in the drawing room,” Porter, the valet, informed Phidias. “Would you like me to retrieve it for you?”
“I’m not dead yet,” Phidias retorted. “And until that day, I’m more than capable of fetching my own damned pince-nez.”
“As you like, sir.”
Both Mick and Lettitia gave an audible sigh of relief as two sets of footsteps were heard retreating down the hall.
Once the danger had passed, they stared at each other, the mood having gone from intimate to awkward in the blink of an eye.
“I’ve got a funny feeling that we’re not going to pick up where we left off,” Mick murmured, more to himself than to her.
“Get off of me. Please.”
At hearing Lettitia’s polite addendum, Mick groaned, wishing there was something he could do or say to make it right for her. Since there wasn’t, he simply did as she asked, pulling himself out of her body. Still rock hard, he rose to his feet. Lettitia stared at his prodigious erection with a look of abject horror. Glancing down, he saw why—he had her virgin’s blood smeared all over him. With a muttered oath, he turned his back and made himself decent—at least as decent as a man with a bulging hunk of flesh straining against his fly could manage. Bare-chested, he walked over and picked up his discarded white shirt, wincing as he did so.
“We must talk,” Lettitia said, the imperious tone having returned to her voice.
Turning around to face her, Mick could see that the woman standing in front of him bore no resemblance to the moaning, writhing woman that he’d held in his arms just a few minutes ago.
“Look, Tisha. I know it happened kinda fast.” He reached over and cupped her cheek with his hand. “I wanted to make it right for you, but—”
Lettitia recoiled, jerking away from him.
His gut twisted in a painful knot. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”
“I do not blame you. On the contrary, I blame myself for what happened.” Taking a deep breath, Lettitia clasped her hands together in front of her waist, the very image of a prim school marm. “I have long wondered about passion—the lure of it so strong, so compelling, it drove my sister to abandon her family and her good name. I can assure you that I do not intend to make that same mistake,” she stiffly intoned, donning her Victorian morals like a suit of armor.
As she swept out of the room, Mick wondered how he was going to get through the next four days.
Chapter 11
“Phoebe, I need your help,” Mick stated matter-of-factly as he plopped into one of the chairs scattered about Madame Mazursky’s salon. Having spent the first half of Day Four examining Emmaline’s murder scene and perusing Ripper articles in back issues of The Times, he’d come to a dead end.
Phoebe poured a cup of tea from a silver samovar. With a gracious smile, she passed it to him.
“I will be more than happy to assist you, Michelangelo. Cream? Sugar?”
Mick shook his head. “No, this is fine. First of all—” He took a deep breath. This was the part of his job that he hated the most. “Emmaline is dead. She was murdered three months ago in Whitechapel.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You do?” Floored, Mick stared at the gray-haired woman sitting across from him. “How is that? The murder was covered up by the London police.”
“All in good time,” Madame Mazursky replied enigmatically. “Now tell me how I may assist you.”
Momentarily knocked off course, Mick quickly regained his stride. “See, it’s like this, Phoebe. I’ve got three suspects, all of whom had a good reason for killing Emmaline. But I’ve only got three days left to figure out which one of ’em did it. That said, I know of homicide cases where the NYPD brought in a psychic to help catch the killer. So I was sorta hoping that…” He let the request hang in the air, feeling stupid as shit for even broaching the subject.
The famed spiritualist raised an elaborately patterned teacup to her lips. Taking a measured sip, she then set the cup in its saucer. “I do not know who killed Emmaline. Even Emmaline did not know the identity of her murderer.” Glancing at Mick’s slack-jawed expression, she ela
borated and said, “Shortly after Lettitia first consulted me about her missing sister, I held a séance. Without Lettitia’s knowledge, I might add.”
“Do you mean the kind of séance where you contact the spirits of the dead?” he asked, wondering if the impromptu visit had been such a good idea after all.
Madame Mazursky confirmed with a nod. “From what Lettitia told me about her sister, I feared the worst. Since the poor girl adamantly believed that Emmaline would be found alive and well, I thought it prudent not to inform her that I’d made contact with her dead sister’s spirit. Unfortunately, Emmaline was thrown into the afterlife so quickly that she never saw her killer.”
Having seen the crime scene photo and read the police report, Mick knew that was a valid scenario. Particularly if the killer had approached Emmaline from behind and slashed her throat. In fact, chances were good that she was dead before she’d even hit the pavement.
“Okay, for argument’s sake, let’s assume you really did communicate with Emmaline’s dead spirit.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Madame Mazursky murmured with a teasing smile.
Ignoring the gentle jibe, Mick posed the question uppermost in his mind. “Why didn’t you tell Lettitia that her sister had been murdered?”
“Because…” She paused, taking a moment to consider her reply. “Because it would have been taken out of context. I feared that learning of the tragedy in a manner so removed from her day-to-day reality might irretrievably damage Lettitia. Believe me, Michelangelo, I did not mean to thrust this burden upon you. I simply didn’t know who else to turn to.”
“You did right to have Lettitia bring me here,” he assured Phoebe, having long since forgiven Lettitia for tricking him into traveling through the time portal. “Murder is my stock in trade. I deal with it every day.”
“Which doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. I suspect that, beneath your jaded veneer, there lurks a valiant knight bent on saving the world.”
“Saving the world?” Mick snorted derisively. “Trust me, it can’t be done. I’ve learned that the hard way.”
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