Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

  "It's too stupid. Your brother is the trustee of the estate my father left to us."

  Jack raised his brows. "Your father was British?"

  "No. But he did attend Oxford on a Rhodes scholarship and that's where he met your father."

  "That was a long time ago."

  "Yeah. But I guess they were good friends." Miranda sipped her wine. How could her father have made such a dumb mistake?

  "So how did Devon get involved?"

  "That's the most ridiculous part of all." She tightened her hands on the wine glass. "The difference between eight and nine."

  "Huh?" Glancing around for the waitress, Jack signaled for another beer. "You lost me."

  "The roman numerals, eight and nine." Miranda looked down into her empty glass. That wine had disappeared in a hurry. "My father's will was drawn up in New York, by a lawyer there. I don't know who made the mistake. It could have even been someone in London. But the fact is, no one caught it."

  Jack glanced at her glass. "You know, you're not making a lot of sense."

  Miranda laughed. "I'm not drunk. Tell me, what number duke is Devon."

  "He's the ninth Duke of Devonwood."

  Miranda smiled at the pride in his voice. Of course, it was always possible, maybe even likely, that Jack himself would be the tenth Duke of Devonwood.

  "Your father was the eighth, right?"

  Jack nodded, his mouth kicking up a grin. "That's the way it goes. Nine after eight."

  "Yeah." She paused for a moment, thinking of how such a small thing had brought her to this point.

  She looked at Jack. "The will named the ninth Duke of Devonwood as my trustee."

  Jack leaned back, whistling. "A man your father didn't even know."

  "Exactly."

  "What a bloody toss-up. Did Devonwood order you to come here to listen to his commands?"

  "Not exactly." For the first time, Miranda wondered if she were talking too much. She'd only had one glass of wine, but there had been the glass with dinner.

  "You aren't going to repeat this, are you, Jack?"

  "Of course not." He looked both affronted and boyish. "Who would I tell, anyway?"

  "That's not the point." She shook her forefinger at him. "You have to promise not to tell."

  He held up his hand. "I promise. Now tell me what you're doing here."

  "We came to get money from our estate so Sharmie could get married."

  Jack burst out laughing. "You came to get money out of Devonwood?" He crashed his chair to the ground, still grinning. "That's a good one."

  "I don't want his money, but my own."

  "Sorry, but it's a fool's errand, if he controls your finances. Devon is immune to our needs for money, and we're his blood relatives."

  Under the table, Miranda's hands were clenched together so tightly, they hurt. "I'm not giving up."

  "You won't succeed." He took a big swallow of his beer. "I won't lead you astray by giving you false hope. But what the hell—life has gotten a lot more interesting since you showed up."

  Miranda sighed. "Thanks for getting the invite to stay until this weekend. That will give me more time to work on him. Even though neither he nor Charlotte wants to have us around."

  "No, Charlotte doesn't want any beautiful, unattached females she doesn't control hanging around, tempting the men of the house into sin. In particular, she's not looking to marry off yours truly to some upstart Yankee." His grin took the sting out of his words. "Of course, she doesn't want Devon to marry at all. That would ruin all her plans."

  "Her plans?"

  "She wants the title for me."

  Miranda gasped. "That's cold."

  He shrugged. "Reality bites, hey?"

  "Devon's still a young man. It seems unlikely he'll remain a bachelor all his life just to please Charlotte."

  "True. Devon's not going to run his life to suit her. On the other hand, he doesn't need to marry. He's got both me and Godfrey to ensure the succession. He's got women whenever he wants them. Why tie himself down? It's no secret that he chafes under the weight of all the dependents he already has."

  "We're getting off the subject." She picked up the small napkin her wine glass was resting on and began shredding it. "Devon's marital plans are no concern of mine."

  "Good to hear you say that. You wouldn't want to set your sights on him. Me either, if it comes to that." He laughed. "You look so shocked. But hey, despite being a younger son, I've got plenty of ego."

  "You certainly do if you think I'm chasing after either one of you overblown, overbred scions of the nobility." She smiled, to show she was only teasing him. "As you pointed out, I'm an American. Your titles don't mean squat to me. If I were in the market for a husband, which I am not, I'd be looking for a man of character and good sense." She flashed him a wink. "That would exclude both of you from consideration."

  He laughed. "That's the way to put us in our places. Treat Devonwood exactly the same way. Before you know it, he'll be throwing money at you to get rid of you."

  "Oh, bother." She clapped a hand to her mouth to prevent any more unruly words from escaping. "I didn't mean to be rude. Even though you were rude to imply I'm husband-hunting."

  He waved a hand. "No problem. We're used to women chasing us. We don't take it personally."

  "Are you one of those younger sons with your own title?"

  "Of course. By virtue of being my father's second son, I am the Marquess of Amesbury." He grinned. "Most dukes have plenty of titles to hand down."

  "It seems a strange system."

  "The nice part about it is that you always get a good table." He grinned. "The bad part, of course, is that you don't know who your friends are. That's why you so often see the nobs hanging out together. Another marquess, let's say, has nothing to gain from befriending me, so we can be comfortable together. It's not complicated."

  "Your brother seems kind of isolated."

  "Godfrey? He's just a typical adolescent boy."

  "I meant Devon."

  Jack burst into laughter. "Devonwood? Isolated? Wait until you see him at a social event. He's the honeypot and the flies will be so thick you'll only see the top of his head, and that only because he's so tall."

  "Flies being women?"

  "Oh, yeah, baby." He gave her an exaggerated leer. "They swarm. Not that he complains. He singles one out of the crowd, takes her home for the evening, and then moves on."

  "You seem to know his habits well."

  He shrugged. "We live together. His patterns are well established."

  "Someone will captivate him someday." Her mouth turned down at the mere thought.

  Jack finished off his beer. "Only a fool would hope for a real relationship with Devonwood. He's not an emotional man."

  The waitress materialized beside Jack. "Another?" she cooed.

  Jack lifted his brows at Miranda.

  She shook her head. "Still suffering from jet lag." The truth was, she wanted to get back and start working on her hats. If she were going to be ready for the garden party, she had a lot of work ahead of her.

  Chapter 13

  Miranda hummed a little as she finished gluing the netting to her pale gold hat. Luckily for her, Sarah had all kinds of supplies in her workshop, from netting to beads to glue guns and sewing implements. At night, the nursery was vaguely mysterious, with the tall windows stamped with darkness instead of sunlight. The shaded lamps cast shadows that softened the angles of the room. Sarah's supplies spilled over the drafting table in a rainbow of colors, with bits of glitz sparkling intermittently.

  She'd enjoyed her glass of wine with Jack, but she'd been impatient to begin work on the hats. As soon as they'd arrived back at the estate, she'd grabbed Sarah's white dress and her own basic hat, and hurried to the nursery. The best time to work was always the present moment.

  Since she had the right tools, it took her only a few minutes to add a flirtatious veil to the small, versatile hat she'd brought with her. She donned the white
dress, struggling to zip up the back of the tight bodice, and then pinned her hat on and glided over to the full-length mirror Sarah had installed near the door. The ornate mirror, with its gold-leafed frame, was from a bygone era, when women wore full bodied gowns heavy with ribbons and lace and rich fabrics.

  But Miranda liked what she saw in her reflection. The simple white dress with its tight bodice and suggestive detailing contrasted nicely with her long black hair. The slightly frivolous hat provided a touch of whimsy to offset the simplicity of the dress, while the veil added a punch of sex.

  Not that she was thinking of sex with anyone. It wasn't her fault that veils were inherently sexy. And that she was living in the home of a man who, it must be admitted, turned her on just by breathing. She tilted the hat a bit to get the perfect angle, pleased with the subtle netting that fell just below her eyes. A bit of allure could always boost a woman's confidence.

  She turned off the overhead light and most of the lamps and returned to the mirror. In the indirect lighting of one lamp, the effect was hypnotic if she did say so herself. This outfit would be perfect for the garden party, especially if she happened to see Devon there.

  A deep voice cut across her small humming. "You can leave your hat on."

  Miranda gave a little shriek, of surprise more than alarm. She'd recognized the voice instantly. "That's an old song," she said quickly, to cover her confusion.

  "Oldie but goodie." The duke strolled into the room. He wore tailored, black pants, and a steel gray shirt. His tall, dark deliciousness provided a wonderful foil to her white and gold ensemble. He stopped very close to her. "The implication," he said, "is that everything else should be taken off." His grin was positively wicked.

  She felt heat rise to her face, and was glad she'd turned off most of the lights. "You wish," she managed.

  "Perhaps." His gaze met hers in the mirror. "Are you blushing?"

  She turned from the mirror, embarrassed to be caught primping, and annoyed at his ambiguous answer. What was he doing here in the sewing room? This was a feminine space, defined by the materials and tools and embellishments used to beautify women for the enjoyment of men. His fierce masculinity overpowered her in this room, throwing her off-balance.

  She'd been happy, cutting and gluing and primping, both when Sarah had been with her, and now, alone. She wasn't prepared for whatever she sensed emanating from Devonwood tonight.

  "I'm trying on a new hat," she said, ignoring his question about blushing. "Sarah gave me this—" She gestured to the slinky white dress, realizing too late that she'd given him the perfect excuse to give her the once-over he was quick to take.

  "Sexy." He moved a step closer to her. She could smell the outdoors on him, fresh air overlaid on his own musky scent.

  "Sarah is very talented," she managed, although she was having trouble breathing.

  "I didn't know she did hats."

  "She doesn't." Miranda glanced up at him through the veil.

  He reached out and touched the fine gold netting. "The dress is also nice."

  "Sarah does beautiful work." Her voice emerged too weakly. What was he doing? His shoulders filled her line of vision and his heated scent teased her nostrils. Where was the man who sat coolly behind his desk treating her like a pesky schoolgirl?

  "Perhaps." He gave her another quick glance. "Or perhaps having the right body inside the dress is what counts."

  "Are you flirting with me?"

  "Consider it more in the nature of a warning." His eyes were suddenly hard.

  "A warning?"

  "I heard you've been invited to stay through the weekend. You should know that it wouldn't be smart for you to hang around here teasing me."

  She managed a short laugh. "Are you threatening me? With what, rape?"

  Something flared in his eyes. The room was too dark, now that she'd turned off most of the lights. She couldn't read him. Was anger the emotion pulsing from him?

  His hand moved from the netting, down her cheek, holding her in place with just that light touch. Her heart began to pound. There was a certain look in his eyes…the look of the cat at a mouse hole.

  His next move confounded her totally. She'd expected him to respond to her crack about rape. Of course she knew he wasn't a rapist. But she felt a strong need to put him on the defensive. Instead—

  "Don't mess around with Jack," he said.

  "Says who?" She poked him in the chest, to remind him they were adversaries, and not…whatever it was he seemed to be thinking they might be when he gazed down at her with that blaze in the heart of his silver eyes.

  "Don't mess with me, either." His tone was husky. "You can't win. I—or I should say my title—have been chased by some of the most experienced women on the planet."

  "Pretty big ego you've got there."

  "Big something," he murmured as he stepped closer, his gaze fixed on her face. His arms wrapped around her slowly, and his head descended, giving her plenty of time to turn away, to say no, to run if necessary.

  She did none of those things. She couldn't move. She stood as straight and stiff as a wax candle, waiting for the light that would ignite her.

  "I'm going to regret this," he murmured. "But I can't resist."

  Outrage flared anew within her, just before his lips touched hers, and she fell into the fire.

  It was a hot fire that blazed through her as quickly as lightning, powerful and shattering. Her entire body ignited, from her toes to her brain. How had she known this would happen when he touched her?

  Now liquid with the heat he'd torched inside her, she was able to move. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back. He made a sound deep in his throat, and pulled her up on her toes. She wanted to hear that sound again. She wanted more of his hard frame rubbing against her, more of his close-shaven face scratching against her tender skin, and more of his strong arms holding her tightly, as if he'd never let her go.

  "Devon—" Unfortunately, the word came out sounding more like a moan than a name.

  Perhaps that's why he ignored it.

  She pushed against him, seeking relief from this burning need that encompassed her.

  There was no relief. At every point where they touched, the flames licked her, sizzling along her nerve endings. She was aware of his mouth, warm and soft, of his tongue, strong and aggressive, seeking entry, insisting on it.

  A pleading sound sizzled from her throat.

  She shivered uncontrollably. He tasted good and she was helpless to do anything but respond. When he sought entry into her mouth, she opened. When he sucked her tongue into his mouth, she followed. When he finally let her go, abruptly, she remained standing just as he'd left her, cold and bereft and wanting more.

  "It wouldn't be rape," he said softly. "Would it?"

  She stood there, stunned. Had he just kissed her like she was the only thing in his world? Had she kissed him back as if he were the only thing in her world?

  But her arms were empty now. Obviously, he hadn't been as shattered as she was. His brain had continued to function, forming a taunt, even as she mindlessly kissed him.

  Now it was time for her to regain control. She stepped back, hoping he wouldn't notice her agitated breathing, even though she could see his chest working like a bellows.

  "It was just a kiss," she said, her voice trembling. "We weren't exactly down and dirty on the schoolroom table."

  His eyes gleamed. "Now there's an interesting idea," he said. "Glad to know our minds are running in the same direction."

  "In your dreams!"

  "No," he corrected. "In my fantasies."

  She stared, helpless once more. Why did he have this effect on her? It was lethal. Sex could only be a fatal impediment to her plan. As much as he didn't want her in his home now, he'd want her even less if she ever succumbed to his advances. He was the kind of guy who conquered and moved on.

  But she had to remember one thing. He was the one who'd ended the kiss. Obviously, he had no intention of a
ctually pushing her to the point of sex, so all this talk was just a bluff to try to get her to leave for fear of what he might do.

  And the way to deal with that – was to turn his plan right back at him. She had to go on the offensive sexually. She turned the idea over in her mind.

  Could she make him nervous about having her around? Well, maybe not nervous. The man didn't have a nervous molecule in his body. But she could call his bluff. If he thought a few kisses and smoldering glances would scare her off, well, she'd just have to show him differently.

  Perhaps she could go even further. He was attracted to her. If she teased him enough, he might give her the money just to get rid of her. Clearly, he wouldn't go so far as to seduce her because he'd already stated that he couldn't sleep with someone who was under his financial control. So she didn't have to worry that he'd accept her advances if she did flirt with him.

  Might be worth a try. She certainly didn't have a better plan.

  She drew a deep breath and touched his hand, casually. "Let me know when you're ready for action, rather than fantasies."

  He stepped back as if her simple touch had burned him. "Let it be, Miranda." He sighed. "It might surprise you to know that I have my own—dreams. But my responsibilities weigh more heavily on me than any dream. With respect to you, the unfortunate fact is that I have full financial control of your life. It's not a good idea to complicate that fiduciary relationship with a sexual liaison."

  "Excuse me! What sexual liaison are you talking about?" She had no intention of having sex with him. A flirtation, maybe. An affair, no. He was right about that potential disaster. "You," she stated, "are the one who kissed me."

  "You're mad about that?"

  "Of course not." She was pleased to manage a small laugh. "Contrary to what I might have expected, I even enjoyed it."

  He grinned suddenly, and her knees wavered. Man, that was a lethal grin.

  "I know damn good and well you enjoyed it," he said.

  Control, Miranda. Control! Keep it casual. Don't let him know that kiss upended your world. "Yeah, well, that's done." She waved a dismissive hand. "I have something more important to talk to you about."