Tycoon Meets Texan!

by Arlene James

  “No. Does that bother you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good.” He kissed her again. “We’ll have breakfast in the car if that’s all right.”

  She shrugged, a little surprised.

  “What would you like? Fresh fruit and pastries all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “And coffee with cream, just enough to muddy it a bit?”

  She smiled because he had remembered something so unimportant.

  “I’ll let the driver know,” he told her with a self-satisfied smile of his own.

  Driver. Of course. Breakfast in the back of a limo, and not via the local drive-through, should there be such a thing in London. “I’ll be ready,” she promised, and he kissed her once more before slipping out into the hall.

  She turned away from the closed door and caught sight of the rumpled, happy woman in the closet mirror. “One of us has lost her ever-loving mind,” she said, but the woman in the mirror didn’t seem to care a whit.

  They ate breakfast in the back of a cream-colored limousine which was shorter than the American version but sturdier and quite roomy, not that Avis had much experience in that area, about as much experience as she had with vacation affairs, to be exact. She sipped her coffee (with cream) from fine bone china while plucking fruit from crystal and buttering her scone with heavy silver. They were scarcely around the corner, however, before Lucien’s cell phone rang.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Within the hour.” He folded the tiny phone and stowed it in the inside coat pocket from which he’d taken it.

  “I’m sorry. I won’t be free until mid-afternoon. I thought we might do Kew Gardens then, but if you like, my driver Baldwin will take you to one of the museums in town. Or maybe you’d prefer to spend the morning shopping? I could—”

  “A museum would be lovely,” she interrupted before he could offer to pick up her shopping bills.

  He nodded, one corner of his mouth curled in a knowing smile. “I would suggest that we try that restaurant I mentioned yesterday, but if I know Mrs. Baldwin, who is my housekeeper and cook, she’s already planning this evening’s menu, and since I’ve disappointed her once already this trip, I thought we might dine in tonight.”

  Avis nodded, a little disconcerted by the thought of housekeepers and drivers. “Are you sure it’s a good idea for me to stay at your place?”

  “It’s an excellent idea,” Luc insisted, squeezing her hand. “I don’t want to miss a moment with you.”

  Avis bit her lip. “You’re not embarrassed to be bringing a woman home with you?”

  He tilted his head, shifting around in his seat a little to look at her. “Shall I tell you what Mrs. Baldwin said this morning when I called to inform her? She said, ‘It’s bloody well about time.’ She’s worried about me, you see, thinks I’m too much alone since my wife died.”

  Avis lifted an eyebrow. “Are you trying to tell me that I’m the first woman you’ve been with these past four years?”

  He seemed a bit startled. “No. I’m not trying to tell you that.”

  “I suppose I’m just the first woman you’ve taken home with you?”

  He blinked at her and sat back, folding his arms. After a moment, he reached up to rub his cleanly shaven chin. “Actually, you are.” He frowned. “I just realized it.”

  “Well, that’s something,” she said softly.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, eyes moving side to side as if he was mentally sifting through a lengthy list. “I have homes all over the world, and I’ve never taken a woman to any of them before, not since my wife died.”

  That shouldn’t have made her feel special, but somehow it did. She shook her head. “All over the world, huh?”

  He shrugged. “Gdansk, Madrid, Buenos Aires, Sydney, Bangkok, Martinique, and Sirinos, um, just outside of Athens.”

  When she could get her mouth closed again, she mumbled, “Not to mention San Francisco.”

  “Or Manhattan,” he added, nodding.

  “Oh, my,” Avis said, and he looked up, surprised.

  “What?”

  Her brow furrowed. “That’s an awfully broad playing field you’ve got there. Sort of redefines the term home, doesn’t it?”

  “Not really. I actually dislike hotels, but my business interests keep me traveling. It’s nice to have someplace of your own, a base of operations. In my case it’s necessary to have many bases.”

  “You can’t be in any one place long enough to actually feel at home, though.”

  “On the contrary. I’ve known most of these houses since I was a boy.”

  She could only shake her head. What had he rattled off, eight or nine “homes?” No, ten. Mustn’t forget London.

  Toto, she thought, we aren’t in Kansas anymore. Heck, this wasn’t just a moment out of time, it was a whole other world, and one in which she knew she could never belong. Fortunately, she wouldn’t have to, at least not for long, but it might be fun to pretend. For a little while.

  Chapter Five

  Avis needn’t have worried about her reception from Luc’s household staff. Plump, sixty-something Mrs. Baldwin, with her graying, untidy hair, oddly dressy pantsuit and kind smile, was only too glad to meet her.

  “Welcome. Welcome. I hope everything is to your liking.”

  “Oh, please, don’t go to any trouble on my account,” Avis told her, standing self-consciously in the high-ceilinged marble foyer of a very fine Kensington row house.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Luc said, kissing the diminutive Mrs. Baldwin on the cheek. “She doesn’t know that you live to pamper.”

  To Avis’s surprise, Mrs. Baldwin swatted her employer on the forearm. “And whom would I pamper?” she demanded. “You’re never home even when you’re here.” She smiled at Avis and clapped her hands together. “At least it wasn’t business keeping you away this time.”

  The tall, redheaded young man introduced to Avis as Lofton cleared his throat. She thought she might recognize him from the airplane, but not so much as a flicker of familiarity had ruffled his calm, blandly handsome face. “Speaking of business…” he said suggestively.

  Mrs. Baldwin frowned, but Lucien clasped Avis’s hand, leaning in to kiss her swiftly on the mouth. “I’m sorry, but I do have to go. When Baldwin returns with the car, you just tell him where you want him to take you, all right? I’ll join you as quickly as I can.”

  “You can’t leave this child on her own,” Mrs. Baldwin protested.

  “It’s perfectly all right,” Avis said quickly. “I understand.”

  “No, no,” Luc interjected, holding up a hand in surrender. “I’ve been properly chastised. How about this, my dear Mrs. Baldwin? I’ll engage a guide for our lovely Avis, so that when I can’t be with her, she won’t be sightseeing on her own.”

  “Lucien,” Avis began, “that’s not nec—”

  “Well, I suppose, if it’s the best that you can do,” sniffed Mrs. Baldwin, folding her arms beneath her heavy breasts.

  Lucien bowed slightly from the waist. “Consider it done then.” He winked at Avis and, followed swiftly by Lofton, went out, leaving her feeling somewhat overwhelmed.

  Mrs. Baldwin beamed at her. “Right then. Now let’s get you settled, love. We’ve an empty dressing room that’s been waiting far too long for something feminine.” With that, she headed off down a wide central hall, the same one through which Mr. Baldwin, the chauffeur and a large, dignified, silent man, had earlier carried Lucien’s bags filled with Avis’s things.

  Avis followed, her steps slowing as she took in her surroundings. A number of doors stood open off that wide central hallway, revealing drawing and dining rooms that featured plastered walls in a rich shade of ruddy wine, accented with creamy painted woodwork. The furnishings were quite formal and appeared to be antiques, as did the ornately framed paintings and colorful area rugs. Mrs. Baldwin busily explained that some of the walls could be taken down panel by panel, creating a grand ballroom.


  “Of course,” she added, “we haven’t had a ball here since Mr. Lucien’s wedding.”

  A library paneled in dark, gleaming wood displayed hundreds of leather-bound volumes, a pair of enormous desks and a hand-painted globe the size of a small automobile. The remaining rooms were less formal. One contained a billiards table and well-stocked bar, another comfortable, overstuffed furniture and a flat-screen television. The closed doors, Mrs. Baldwin informed her, were those of the gentlemen’s and ladies’ retiring rooms, each denoted by a brass G or L placed discreetly above the crystal door knobs.

  At the back of the house, a second hallway crossed the first. Mrs. Baldwin waved to the left even as she turned right. “You can reach the kitchen, staff quarters and garage that way.” She pointed straight ahead and added, “You’ll find a hidden staircase just around that corner, and here…” She stopped and opened a door inlaid with heavy brass grillwork. “Mrs. Eugenia had this elevator installed. This used to be a storage room.”

  Avis gaped. An elevator. In a private home. She shook her head, followed the housekeeper into the roomy compartment and thought to ask, “Who is Mrs. Eugenia?”

  “Dear me,” exclaimed Mrs. Baldwin, pushing a button, “that would be Lucien’s mother. You haven’t met her then?” The elevator lifted off.

  “Ah…no.”

  “Just as well,” Mrs. Baldwin chirped. An instant later, the elevator stopped and Mrs. Baldwin opened the door.

  They stepped out into a small antechamber from which two more bright hallways branched off, a long one to the right and a short one straight ahead. Mrs. Baldwin walked through the latter and threw open double doors, revealing a stunning gold-and-blue sitting room elegantly furnished with white damask chairs and sofas arranged in front of a massive white marble fireplace. The bedchamber, decorated in the same tones of gold and cool blue, was accented with stunning splashes of crimson, including the silk spread on the massive four-poster bed and a waist-high crystal vase overflowing with dozens of fresh roses. The woods were all golden and warm, including those that fronted the fireplace opposite the bed.

  Avis stood in the center of the floor with her mouth open, oblivious to the cheerful chatter of the friendly housekeeper as she crossed to one of a pair of doors opposite a virtual bank of multipaned windows overlooking the street. A bench had been built in beneath the window and topped with a long, thick crimson velvet cushion, which matched the heavy draperies. Mrs. Baldwin spoke to her from the dressing room.

  “You have some lovely things.”

  “Thank you.”

  She appeared in the doorway holding the sapphire blue dress that Avis had meant to wear the night before. “Now this is lovely,” she said. “You see that you make him take you someplace worthy of it.”

  Avis laughed, caught off-guard by a surge of sheer joy. “I think he already has!”

  Mrs. Baldwin beamed. “Oh, pish. This is nothing. He’s rich as Midas, you know.”

  “I’m beginning to get that idea.”

  “And you didn’t have it before?”

  “Well, I knew he wasn’t rubbing his last two nickels together, but this…” She shrugged helplessly. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this, frankly.”

  “Well, we are ready for you,” Mrs. Baldwin told her unabashedly. Folding her hands, she clucked her tongue. “He’s too much business since his wife died.”

  “You’ve known him a long time, it seems.”

  “He was a mite of four when he first walked through that door downstairs,” the housekeeper said mistily. “I’ve loved him like my own ever since. I thought it would be the same with Nicholas, but…”

  She looked so alarmed that Avis felt it important to say, “I know about Lucien’s son.”

  Mrs. Baldwin relaxed enough to sniff disapprovingly, “The child never leaves San Francisco.” Then she added grudgingly, “I suppose it’s for the best.” With that she disappeared back into the dressing room. “I’ll have you unpacked in a twinkling, dear. Then maybe you’d like to see the kitchen? I’ll warrant you’re hungry again. I told him, scones and fruit are a poor substitute for eggs and ham, but does he listen to me? Has he ever? Ha.”

  Avis just smiled and looked around her again. A different world indeed and a frightening one in a way. Suddenly chilled, she chafed her arms through her sleeves, but then she shook her head. What was there to fear? She didn’t for a moment believe that Lucien Tyrone or anyone in this household would harm her, and yet she couldn’t help wondering if she hadn’t made a mistake. She thought, briefly, about going straight back to the hotel, but she’d never be able to make herself do anything as rude as skipping out on her host without a word of explanation, and any explanation she might have made disappeared the moment Lucien Tyrone walked into the room some hours later and swept her into his arms.

  “I won’t be able to fit into my clothing if she keeps feeding me every hour on the hour,” Avis complained good-naturedly. The past week had been a miracle of delights, not the least of which was Mrs. Baldwin’s determined efforts to spoil her shamefully.

  “But she’s so very happy, having you to feed,” Lucien teased, lifting the sponge and squeezing it so that warm water ran in rivulets down the slopes of her breasts. “Besides, Baldwin says you walked five miles today.”

  As she was sitting between his legs, Avis laid her head back on his shoulder. “There was so much to see! I never dreamed Westminster Abbey would be so fascinating. Emma says—”

  “She’s working out, then?” he interrupted pointedly. “You like her?”

  “She’s wonderful.”

  “I’m glad. You were unsure at first.”

  That was putting it mildly. She hadn’t wanted him to hire a tour guide for her. They had almost argued about it, and she’d given in only reluctantly. Avis turned to face him now, sloshing sudsy water inside the enormous tub. “I was downright ungracious at first, and you know it.”

  He smiled and tapped the end of her nose with a wet forefinger. “A little matter of pride, I think. I rather like that about you.” He showed her what else he liked, cupping her breasts with his hands.

  She turned and placed her back to his chest once more, doing her best to ignore the heat building inside her as his hands filled themselves again. It was disconcerting, that heat, as it seemed to burn hotter with every passing day. She had convinced herself that desire would pall and quickly diminish as the days passed; instead, it had grown.

  “Well, at the risk of inflating your already enormous ego,” she said blithely, sinking down to lay her head on his shoulder so she could look up at him, “Emma is probably the best tour guide in all of England.”

  “Better than me?” he asked softly, bringing his mouth close to hers.

  Avis chose to ignore that and tried not to gulp, saying lightly, “It’s hard to believe that anyone so young could know so much.”

  “I try not to let it go to my head.”

  She elbowed him. “I was talking about Emma.”

  He chuckled, well aware of her meaning. “I’m glad she pleases you.”

  “I don’t think pleasing me is really the issue,” Avis said pointedly.

  “Oh, but it is,” he assured her, sliding his hands downward over her belly.

  She gave him an arch look. “What I mean is that Emma is more interested in pleasing you than me. She has a serious crush on you, in case you haven’t noticed. You’re her second favorite subject, right after the monarchy.”

  He made a face and slid one hand lower still. “Scottish schoolgirls are not to my taste. I like my women from the Wild West these days.”

  These days. These days couldn’t last much longer. She had been here a week already. Too many more and she would never want to go home again.

  “We have theater tickets,” she reminded him gently, grasping his clever fingers.

  Undeterred, he nuzzled her ear. “They won’t close the door to us, you know.”

  No one closed the door to Lucien Tyrone, not even her. Not yet. �
�I don’t want to miss anything. Besides, I have a new dress to wear.” She had worn the sapphire dress to dinner, as well as to a concert at the Royal Albert Hall, so she had devoted her afternoon to shopping for something new.

  “Come then,” he said, turning her in his arms and moving forward so that he could pull her legs about him. “Let’s not waste any time.”

  She did as he wanted, did exactly as he wanted. It was so easy, so natural, to want to please him. As always she was astonished afterward at how easily and completely she had succumbed. “I don’t know how you do this,” she told him, floating bonelessly in a virtual sea of rapture, the minutes ticking away. They would be lucky to make the second act.

  “I don’t think that I do it,” he said, from the corner of the tub where he had collapsed. “I think we do it. I think it’s us, you and me together.”

  Us. A shiver lifted gooseflesh on her wet skin. She folded herself into a sitting position, pulled her feet beneath her and rose, languidly sluicing the water from her upper body before throwing a leg over the side of the tub and reaching for a towel. “We had better get a move on.”

  “Stop it,” he said, moving to the outside edge.

  She looked back at him in surprise, wrapping the towel around herself. “What?”

  “Stop avoiding the subject.”

  “I’m not avoiding anything. I just don’t want to miss the whole first act.”

  He frowned at her, watching with hooded eyes as she began to briskly towel-dry her hair. “I’m not going to let you get away with that forever, you know.”

  She blinked at him. “I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?”

  She faced him, arms folded. “Are you spoiling for a fight, Lucien? Because I don’t like to fight.”

  Something welled into his dark eyes. She thought for a moment that it might have been anger or even worry, but then a smile tugged at his lips. He rose from the water and reached for another of the towels that had been left warming in front of the fire. “I know you don’t. It’s one of the dearest and most frustrating things about you.”