The MacGregor Grooms

by Nora Roberts

  She’d be singing, standing center stage with the mike in her hand and some sexy little dress barely covering her. Her voice would be filling the room, radiating through it. Deep and rich and smooth.

  He realized he didn’t want to just see her, he wanted to hear her. He wanted to find a table in the back of the room, in the dark, and just listen.

  “I’ve got twelve.” The sister on the end batted enormous baby blues and demanded attention. “What should I do, Duncan?”

  “Take a chance. I’m showing nine, so you have to figure nineteen.”

  “Okay, but be gentle with me.”

  He clobbered her with a king and smiled sympathetically.

  “Oh, pooh.” She pouted prettily. “Maybe I’m just better at other games.”

  Signal received, he thought. Loud and clear. And what the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t feel the least bit tempted to bounce back with a signal of his own. And felt nothing but relief when Gloria stepped beside him.

  “Changing dealers, ladies,” she said cheerfully. Their responding chorus of awws had Gloria chuckling. “Say good-night, Duncan.”

  “Good night, ladies. You’ve got the floor from here,” he murmured to his manager.

  “Yeah, under control. Why don’t you go on into the lounge and take in the rest of the show—since that’s where your mind’s been for the last hour, anyway.”

  “Might just.” He gave her a quick flick on her nose. “Gloria will take good care of you,” he said to the table, and four pairs of big blue eyes followed him out the door.

  “So, is he taken?”

  Gloria arched her brows at the blonde across from her, then grinned. “Yeah, he is. He just doesn’t know it yet. Ladies, place your bets.” I have, she thought, and laughed to herself.

  Duncan slipped quietly into the lounge, adjusting to the dim lights and the heat of Cat’s voice. She was singing about loving the wrong man, but there was as much defiance as sorrow in the vocals.

  He’d meant to ease down the side and toward the back, order a brandy and sit sipping while he listened to her. But he stayed where he was, in the shadows just to stage left.

  She knew he was there, would have sworn there’d been a change in the air the moment he’d stepped in. Something charged and edgy that had her skin prickling. As if to test them both, she shifted her gaze, met his, held it. Let the song pour out of her, and into him.

  It wasn’t until the applause sounded that she realized she’d yet to break the connection. She lowered the mike so her shaky expulsion of breath wouldn’t carry, then turned a sparkling smile to the audience.

  She had a patter, some that was scripted in her head, more that came as suited the mood—hers and theirs. But she knew how to play the audience and enjoyed it, because she enjoyed them.

  So she would concentrate on them instead of the dangerous man standing in the shadows.

  He had yet to recover his breath when she began talking, sliding into an intimate conversation with those who sat at the tables.

  She charmed them, he noted, calling for the lights to spot on a couple near the front who were celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary. She made a few jokes, just bawdy enough to have the room roaring, then cuing the music, she began to sing a suggestive version of “Big Spender” directly to the man.

  She stroked his cheek, skimmed her fingers through his hair, slid into his lap as his wife giggled helplessly and he turned a deep pink accented with a foolish grin.

  Duncan found himself grinning, too. Damn, she was good, he thought. She’d wrap them around her finger and keep them right there until she was done.

  And she was doing exactly the same to him.

  But the difference was, he told himself, he intended to do some wrapping himself.

  Leaning back against the wall, he watched, and kept watching until the end of the show.

  It made her jumpy to know he was still there, right where he’d been since he’d come in, where she’d have no choice but to pass him on the way to her dressing room.

  And because she was jumpy, she was all the more determined to pretend she couldn’t care less.

  “You don’t usually stay so long,” she commented, unscrewing the top of the bottle of water she always kept close by the stage. “Spot checking the talent?”

  “I wanted to see you.” He said it simply because it was true—and because he knew it would throw her off.

  “Well … you did.” She started past, pausing when he took her wrist.

  “Let’s go outside.”

  “No thanks. I need to change.”

  “No, you don’t. I like looking at you in that delightful excuse for a dress.” It was black tonight, plunging deep, front and back.

  “I’m tired, Duncan.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re revved.”

  He could feel the energy pouring out of her, wanted to capture it. Watching her eyes, he lifted the hand he held to his mouth. “It’s warm on deck, and there’s a moon. Take a walk with me. I won’t touch you unless you want me to.”

  That was the trouble, she thought. She did want him to. Maybe it was time to stop pretending otherwise. “All right. We’ll walk. I could use some air. Nice crowd tonight.”

  He guided her through the tables and out the doors. “You made Anniversary Boy’s night. Possibly his year.”

  She laughed at that, shook back her hair and drew in the deep, dark scent of the water. “His wife set it up with me before the show, gave me fifty bucks to pour it on.”

  “She got her money’s worth. Let’s go up, closer to the moon.”

  “I hear you’re a big hit with the Kingston sisters,” she commented as they climbed the stairs.

  “Did you?”

  “They were in the lounge earlier, giggling and sighing over you.”

  “Nothing more rewarding to a man than to make the ladies giggle and sigh.” He climbed steadily up to the third deck, pleased to find it deserted.

  “I bet.” She walked to the rail, leaned out. “God, this is fabulous. Really fabulous. I love the night on the river.”

  “My personal favorite. I’ve been hoping to wear you down enough to get you out here with me.” He turned her slowly. “At night on the river.”

  “That’s not where you want me, Duncan.”

  “Just one of the many places.” He ran his hands up her arms, but didn’t draw her against him. “You sang to me.”

  Her heart began to flutter, an uncomfortable and, she thought, idiotic feeling. “I sing to everyone. It’s my job.”

  “You sang to me,” he repeated, his voice quiet and smooth. “It made me want you so much my bones ached.” His fingers skimmed over her shoulders, up the side of her throat. “And it made me see you wanted me right back.”

  He lowered his head, keeping his mouth a whisper from hers. “You’ll have to ask me, since I promised I wouldn’t.”

  “Do you always keep your word, Duncan?”

  “Yeah.” His breath fluttered over her lips. “I do.”

  “And I never ask,” she told him, and fisting her hands in his hair, dragged his mouth to hers.

  She cut him off at the knees with that wild and sudden slap of lust. Her mouth was like a flame, branding and burning and making him desperate for more. He knew if he didn’t take control he’d simply snap and take her where they stood.

  He broke the kiss, ordered himself to gentle the hands that had clamped on her shoulders. “My cabin’s right behind us.”

  She angled her head, smiled slowly. Desire was a slow and steady burning in the blood. “I know.”

  He backed up, sliding his hands down to hers, drawing her with him. Then he circled her, freeing one hand to dig for his key, watching her face as he slipped it into the lock.

  “Why don’t we go inside?”

  “Why don’t we?” she murmured, and turned to walk into the room.

  He’d left a light burning by the bed and the wide window undraped and open to the moon. Though her blood conti
nued to pump hot and hard, she took a careless turn around the room.

  There was an antique table graced with pictures framed in gleaming silver, deep-cushioned chairs in a vivid shade of blue, brass lamps with glass globes, a gracefully arched niche filled with books and more photos.

  The bed was brass as well, with fluid lines and of generous size.

  “Nice digs.” She glanced over her shoulder as she heard the scrape of a match, and watched with both pleasure and surprise as he lit a group of slender white candles. “You’re quite the romantic, aren’t you?”

  He blew out the match, then walked over to switch off the bedside lamp so they stood in the soft glow of shifting light and shadows. “You have a problem with that?”

  “No, not particularly.” But it made her just a little shaky. To counter it she curved her lips and reached back to unzip her dress.

  “Don’t.” He stepped forward, ran a single fingertip from the base of her throat to the edge of the plunge of black silk. “I want to undress you.”

  She let her arms fall back to her sides. “What’s stopping you?”

  “Nothing.” He lowered his head, nibbled gently at her neck. “Not a thing. You smell like you look.”

  She fought the urge to shake her head clear. “You bought the perfume … big spender.”

  He chuckled and lapped at her. “Taste like you look.”

  Her breath was going ragged despite her efforts to control it. “You’ve had a sample or two before.”

  “Not enough. Not nearly.” He worked his way back up to her mouth, but barely skimmed it. “Should I tell you what I want to do with you … or should I just surprise you?”

  Oh dear, was all she could think. “I don’t surprise easy.”

  “Then let’s see what I can do.”

  His lips brushed hers again, once, then twice, teasing hers apart. His tongue seduced hers into a lazy dance, lulling her into mists that thickened slowly, sweetly.

  No one had ever kissed her like this, spent so much time, shown so much patience. And when he began to inch down the zipper at her back, she shivered in delicious anticipation.

  But he didn’t peel the dress away, simply spread it apart, stroking his hands over her back. He wanted time to enjoy every inch of her, every moment of this first time. Even when her hands clutched at him, her nails raked down his shirt, he took his time.

  It built slowly, this pleasure, layer over layer of heat tangling with layer over layer of need. So when he slipped the dress from her shoulders, listened to it rustle as it fell in a pool, he was ready to take them both to the next stage.

  Thoughtfully, he traced a fingertip along the swell of her breasts, over the top of her strapless black bra. “Very nice,” he said softly, then trailed that fingertip down, over her midriff, down to flick over the slim matching garter belt. “Very, very nice.”

  “Let’s see if I can say the same.” Struggling to keep her hands steady, she slipped off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt. The candlelight flickered over his skin, that lovely dusky gold; shimmered over the lean torso, the long muscles. She ran her tongue between her teeth, slid her gaze up.

  “Yes, very, very nice.”

  He swept her up, making her heart flop in her chest. “It’s about to get better.”

  Chapter 16

  She expected speed now, fast hands, and would have welcomed them. But when he laid her on the bed, when he covered her, when he slid down her body, those hands were slow, thorough and devastating.

  He heard her moan, felt her arch, and in one blind moment dug teeth into her thigh just above the top of her stocking. When she shuddered, he ran his tongue up, over, then into her.

  Shocked by the sudden change, staggered by the sharp lance of pleasure, she bowed up, opening for him, and felt herself fly like a pebble out of a slingshot.

  Greedy, he took, then greedy still, he worked his way up, using hands and mouth, teeth and tongue. He flicked open the front clasp of her bra and feasted.

  Delirious, desperate for more, she wrapped herself around him, her hands as busy as his, her mouth seeking the taste of him everywhere. The breath tore through her lungs when their lips met again.

  “I want you inside me.” She tugged at his slacks, fighting them down his hips. “Now. Right now.”

  Her eyes glinted in the shifting light. Her hair tumbled like wildfire over the bed. He thought in that moment he wanted her more than he wanted to live.

  “Then look at me.” He panted the words, yanking up her hips. “Look at me when I am.”

  And drove into her.

  He watched those glorious eyes blur, go dark, glassy, and swallowed the moan that trembled through her lips. Beneath him she moved, a silk-skinned lightning bolt.

  Power, speed, wild and wicked energy barely tapped. Her nails dug into his back, ran over his hips, dragged through his hair as all the while that marvelous, agile body plunged with his.

  He felt the climax tear through her in one long, shuddering rip, gloried in the choked sob that caught in her throat.

  He thought mine, then his mind emptied as he poured himself into her.

  * * *

  Well, Cat thought when her mind could function again, she’d done it now. All those good intentions, all those sensible lectures she’d given herself—out the window and into the river.

  Advantage, Duncan, she decided. Not only had she surrendered her body, but somewhere along the line she’d slipped up and let him get a good grip on her heart, as well.

  And she knew just what would happen next. He’d enjoy it. They’d have a tumbling, torrid affair—discreetly, of course. He was, after all, the boss, and wouldn’t want to risk gossip. Then when her contract was up, he’d wink her out of his life, perhaps adding a small, tasteful parting gift.

  And that would be that.

  Men like Duncan Blade didn’t make serious plays for itinerant lounge singers.

  So, she’d have to prepare herself. And when the time came, she’d do the winking and leaving first.

  Determined to follow the rules of this particular game, she ran her hands casually down his back, then lifted her arms and stretched. “Mmm. Very nice, Blade. Very nice.”

  His head was still reeling. “I feel like a cartoon cat.”

  “What?”

  “You know, one that gets his head bashed with a sledgehammer. Then he has three heads all vibrating and making that really cool sound while his eyes spin around.”

  She snorted out a laugh and had nearly hugged him before she remembered it was smarter to play it cool. “What happens when his head stops vibrating?”

  “He does it all again.” Chuckling, he nipped at her throat, her jaw, paused at her mouth with one long, slow kiss. And just as Cat’s mind began to fog again, he rolled and tucked her neatly against him.

  He was a snuggler, she thought, and felt that grip on her heart tighten, just a bit. “So, you watch a lot of cartoons?”

  “They’ll take your troubles away. Who can worry when they’re in Frostbite Falls?”

  “Whatsamatta U.”

  He laughed and gave her a squeeze. “Don’t make it worse …”

  “It’s Badenov.”

  “Well, who’d’ve thought, the sophisticated Cat Farrell and Rocky and Bullwinkle.”

  “Hey, it takes a very sophisticated palate to truly appreciate moose and squirrel.”

  “Indeed it does.” And there, he thought, was that connection again, on a different level. “My cousin Cybil and I used to have long, intense discussions on the true meaning of those opening credits. She’s a cartoonist.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Mmm. Clever girl our Cybil.” He nudged Cat until they were face-to-face, damp bodies meshing. “Want to have a long, intense discussion?”

  “We could do that.” Her blood was heating again. She slid against him, scraping her teeth lightly over his chin. “Or I could get my sledgehammer back out.”

  “I like the way you think.” He found her mouth
with his, sank in. “Move your things in here.”

  “Mmm. What?” She jerked back, shoving at his shoulder before he could shift on top of her.

  “Your things.” His hand skimmed up, cupped her breast. “Move them in here.”

  “Whoa.” Off balance, she squirmed free. “What’s that about?”

  “I want to be with you. What’s the point of you sleeping two decks below?” He sat up as well and began to nibble her shoulder.

  “Discretion. If I move in here, the crew and passengers are going to know. It’s not that big a boat.”

  “So what?” He gave her hips a boost, maneuvering her until her legs were around his waist and they were torso-to-torso. “We’re all grown up now, past the climb-through-the-window stage.” He ran his hands up her back, moving in so that he could feast on her neck. “I want you here. I just want the hell out of you.”

  Think, think, think, she ordered herself, even as the blood rushed to her head to roar like the sea. “You’ve got a bigger bed. A better view. Incredible hands,” she said in a humming purr. “But …” While she still could, she laid her hands on his shoulders and held him off. “If I move my stuff in here, the cabin below stays mine. No booking it.”

  He looked into her eyes. “You want an escape route?”

  “Tidier that way, sugar. If either one of us decides the arrangement’s getting old, I just move back down. No harm, no foul.”

  He ignored the quick twist of annoyance and gripped her hips again. “Deal.”

  Then he lifted her, filled her.

  * * *

  It didn’t get old. She kept expecting it to, at least on his part. But the longer they were together, the more they seemed to need to stay that way. She told herself it was the sex. Lord knew their hunger for each other didn’t appear to be waning.

  Late nights and early mornings. One sweltering afternoon in Natchez where he surprised her with a hotel suite and they’d made energetic love in an enormous tub frothy with swirling bubbles. A hot, fast coupling against her dressing room door that had taken them both by surprise and had left her shimmering through her first show.

  He still brought her flowers, and foolish little gifts. She couldn’t get a handle on it. He had her, why was he still pursuing her? It had been nearly three weeks since they’d become lovers, she thought as she rolled over in the bed she now thought of as hers as much as his.