Her Scoundrel

by Geralyn Dawson

  Really. She wouldn’t.

  She moved to the sitting room adjacent to her bedroom intending to return to her book. She’d picked a delightful novel filled with mystery from Paradise Lodge’s library shelves, and she was anxious to discover the perpetrator of the crime. But when she reached for the book on the table where she’d left it, she found another in its place.

  “The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments?” she read the title aloud. Frustration rushed through her. What happened to her novel? “Jake Kimball, you have the nerve of a toothache.”

  She glanced around the room, searching fruitlessly for her book. Sighing, she sank onto the settee and pulled off her riding boots. She stretched her legs and wiggled her toes. She drummed her fingers on her knee. What should she do next?

  Her gaze returned to the book. No, she wouldn’t read it. That’s what he wanted. He wanted to intrigue her, to tempt her. To take her to places she’d never go on her own.

  The arrogant beast.

  “Well, I’ll show him.” She’d read, but only because that was her original plan. She wouldn’t don the costume and she certainly wouldn’t visit that tent. Not now. Not after dark.

  She lifted the book, flipped to a random page. “In a town in Persia, there lived a man and his wife.”

  Kat quickly sank into the story and when she finished it, she began another, losing track of time. Losing herself in the mystery and allure of Shaharazad’s stories.

  BENEATH THE silvered light of a full moon, Jake waited for his bride. Honeysuckle perfumed the warm, gentle breeze that whipped ripples in the roof of the tent. An owl’s mournful hoot drifted across the night.

  Jake surveyed his surroundings. The tent, the pillows and the rugs had come from a friend in London whose wife had hosted an Arabian-themed ball the previous year. The mattress belonged in one of the lodge’s guest rooms. The chests and their contents came from collections at Chatham Park. The djellaba he wore was his own, acquired during his most recent trip to El Bahar.

  The silks and scents in the tent came from a trunk sent back to their father by the Kimball brothers following a visit to El Bahar on their fateful journey to Tibet. Jake recalled another night in another tent in the faraway land, sitting beside Daniel as scantily clad women danced before them. He’d been offered his choice among them for the night, and he’d spent the succeeding hours in a young man’s version of heaven. He’d worn himself sore, and he’d barely managed to ride the following day. Daniel gave him grief about it until the day he…

  “Hell.” Jake grabbed a date from a wooden bowl, then stepped outside the tent. He wasn’t going-to fall into the past’s trap tonight. Tonight was his. His and Kat’s. He stared up toward the house, toward the bedroom window where lamplight burned. Would she come? Or would he have to go get her? Either way worked for him.

  He indulged for a moment, imagining what it might be like if she didn’t cooperate with his plans. He’d sweep into her room like a desert wind. She’d be sitting on the sofa, dressed uncharacteristically prim and proper. She’d have her hair bound neat and tight. She’d be sitting in a chair doing embroidery, and it’d slip from her fingers once she saw him. Alarm would spark in her eyes.

  “Come,” he’d say.

  “No. Never.”

  He’d yank the corded ties from the bedroom curtains and advance on her. She’d stand abruptly, knocking over her chair. She’d gasp and put a hand against her chest and back away.

  He’d bind her arms against her side by wrapping the cord around her as she struggled against him, then he’d scoop her up, toss her over his shoulder, one possessive hand cupping her buttocks, the other up under her skirt, holding her bare legs, as he headed downstairs and out of the lodge.

  She’d be protesting, of course, threatening him, begging him…Jake slowed the fantasy for a moment, particularly enjoying the begging aspect…but being a manly, arrogant master, he’d turn a deaf ear to her words. He’d carry her into the tent, then toss her onto her back on the soft, luxurious mattress.

  Now, she’d take a good look at him and despite herself, against her own will, her eyes would soften with arousal. Her reaction would make her angry, and she’d renew her resistance. Jake would be forced to brandish his knife.

  Kat’s eyes would grow round. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Of course I would.”

  Taking extraordinary care not to touch her delicate skin, he’d slip the blade beneath her demure neckline and slit the material all the way to her ankles. Shocked at the boldness of his actions, she’d lie still, and he’d turn his attentions to her corset, then her underclothes, and within seconds, she’d lie naked before him like a feast. The erect, rosy nipples that tipped her full breasts would rise and fall with her rapid breaths. He wanted her. How he wanted her.

  He’d throw the knife, end over end, toward the tent’s centerpole, and it would wedge in the wood with a thunk. At that point Kat’s spirit would revive, and she’d scramble off the bed, slipping once or twice when her fingers and feet failed to make purchase against the satin and silk. At some point during their struggles, her hair would have fallen loose, and now it unfurled like a golden flag behind her as she fled.

  He’d catch her in two strides, swooping her up into his arms, laughing. He’d dump her back on the feathered mattress. She’d bounce like an angry cat and come up spitting fire and fighting. So full of fire, his Kat. So full of life and love. She warmed a part of him he’d never before realized was cold. He’d miss her when he was gone.

  It was a shocking thought that jolted him right out of his fantasy.

  He didn’t miss women. Ever. They came and went through his life with barely a ripple. He enjoyed them while they were there, but he seldom thought twice about them once he’d moved on.

  He’d think about Kat. A lot. He’d miss her humor, her wit, her laughter. God knows he’d miss her loving.

  Jake raked his fingers through his hair, then began to pace back and forth in front of the tent. This was wrong. He didn’t like this. He hadn’t anticipated it.

  He’d let her get too close.

  “Well, hell,” he muttered. He’d known he might miss the children when he left, but missing Kat was something else entirely. He didn’t like thinking he’d allowed her to matter. Hadn’t he learned better than to care too much long ago?

  Maybe this honeymoon hadn’t been such a great idea, after all. He’d spent too much time with her and without any other distractions. He’d learned too much about her, about her wishes and dreams and fears and frustrations. Maybe he should take a step back, put some distance between them.

  Maybe he should pack up the Tagine t’Faia and call it a night. Call it a honeymoon. He’d make up some excuse for leaving early. Hell, if she weren’t enthused about the gifts he’d left lying on her bed, she might be more than happy to return to Chatham Park.

  Yeah, that’s what he’d do. Nodding decisively, Jake pivoted and ducked into the tent. Just for the hell of it, he gave a square pillow made of purple silk and trimmed with gold tassels a swift kick, sending it flying toward the mattress. Just as it landed, he heard a noise behind him.

  Clink. Clink. Clink-clink-clink.

  He turned and his heart stopped.

  She stood just inside the tent, a woman right out of a man’s hottest fantasy. His mouth went dry as the Sahara as his gaze trailed over her from head to toe. The diadem crowned her free-flowing hair. Around her neck, she wore her emerald pendant. The fullness of her breasts all but overflowed the top, their luscious bounty snagging his gaze for a long moment until his stare drifted lower. She held her hands in front of her bare midriff, blocking his view of her navel. He watched her fingers move as she played the zills, the sound of the finger cymbals vibrating to his core. He sucked in a breath as he studied the way the chain belt rested below her hips. Her swaying hips. Hips that did little figure eights and sent the scarves hanging from the belt shimmering in the lamplight, shifting with movement allowing revealing flashes of the smooth
, supple skin of her thighs.

  Lord. It was a plea, a prayer. She stepped forward and he saw she wore bangles around one ankle. Her feet were bare. He wanted to suck on her toes. Her nipples. Her…

  Jake swallowed hard.

  Clink. Clink. Clink. The cymbals clattered. She hummed an exotic, erotic tune, and her hips moved faster, the chains at her hips rattling. The scarves swaying.

  Then she said his name, a soft, seductive, come-hither whisper of a word. The glow in her eyes teased.

  He’d created a monster; that’s what he’d done. Jake Kimball, the consummate seducer, man of the world, explorer extraordinaire was at risk of being soundly beaten at his own game. Damn.

  Could a man die from too much of this?

  Jake all but fell on his knees at her feet. All thought of leaving evaporated from his mind like a morning mist. He reached for her, but she spun away, laughing. The view from behind was almost as intriguing as that from the front.

  “Kat, you are…I don’t have words.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder, a saucy, sassy look that made him want to grind his teeth. “Quiet, slave. You’ve not been given permission to speak.”

  That stopped him. “Slave?”

  “You were a gift to me from my sultan, my prize for having saved the life of his beloved son.” She reached for the bowl of grapes and selected one.

  Jake’s eyes narrowed. “How?”

  “How what?” She chewed, then licked her lips.

  He swallowed. “How did you save the son’s life?”

  “In a drowning accident.”

  Jake folded his arms. “In the desert?”

  Kat scowled at him. “It rained that afternoon.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you’re not supposed to talk. I forbid it.”

  Jake sauntered over toward the baskets containing the food for their feast. He plopped down upon a plush Tabriz rug, leaned back against a pillow, grabbed a date from a bowl and popped it into his mouth.

  Kat narrowed her eyes and shot him a warning stare. “You’re awfully cocksure for a slave.”

  Nodding, Jake solemnly agreed, “Yes, I’m definitely sure of my cock.”

  Her lips twitched a bit at that, but she continued to play her character. “Silence, slave. I’m tempted to cut out your tongue for disobeying me, but since I have other uses for it, you’re safe. For now, anyway.”

  “Lucky for me.” Jake stretched out his leg. “So, I’m a gift, hmm? I take it you wanted a sophisticated, debonair gentleman?”

  “If that were the case, I’d be out of luck,” Kat replied, wrinkling her nose. “You couldn’t act the gentleman if your life depended on it.” Falling back into her role, she quipped, “No, I just wanted a slave tall enough to…ahem…dust my shelves.”

  “You’re a cruel woman, mistress.”

  “Now, see? That’s the wrong word. Pay attention, Kimball. Tonight, I intend to be the master. You wanted Arabia, after all. Now, you will submit to me in any way and in every way I choose.”

  “You have a vivid, if misguided, imagination, darling. I submit to no one.”

  She responded by arching a brow and smiling, her gorgeous green eyes lit with challenge. “Oh, my imagination is vivid. Never doubt it. It appears we shall have to work on yours.”

  Then, with a slow, purposeful swivel, she did that figure eight movement with her hips.

  All right, perhaps her imagination wasn’t as faulty as he’d thought. Jake mentally debated the exact meaning of the word submit.

  The corner of her mouth lifted in challenge. “Do I excite you, slave?” She removed the bolero, displaying a healthy amount of supple cleavage in the candlelight.

  He blinked.

  “Do I?” Running a delicate finger down the length of her pendant’s chain, she seemed to delight in teasing him. “How much?”

  “More than you know.”

  “Do I tempt you?”

  More than you should. “Yes.”

  “Very well, then.” Coming behind him, she pressed one hand to his shoulder while the other picked up a dark purple grape from the bowl near his elbow. Jake’s body hummed with anticipation.

  Her perfume was like an elixir. All sweetness and spice blended with woman and night air. It grabbed hold of him like an exotic opiate and held him captive.

  She leaned down and caressed his bare shoulders with the cold fruit. First one, then the other. Her hair a blond curtain over her shoulder, she bent and offered it to him, only to playfully snatch it back to enjoy herself. Featherlight, grape-tinged kisses teased his nape, his collarbone, his earlobe. He turned to reach for her.

  She stepped back. “Dare you touch your mistress without permission?”

  Did he ever. “Kat…”

  “Silence!”

  He blinked again. Well, hell. He’d started all this. Maybe an igloo in Alaska would have been a better choice. Eskimo women are just happy to be bedded on a pile of furs. Slaves and masters…what in God’s name had he been thinking?

  Idiot. She intended to make him pay.

  With a click of her tongue, she shook her head. “I was afraid of this. You are far too rebellious. I shall have to resort to other methods to ensure your…cooperation.”

  His mouth went dry. “Methods?”

  Her eyes darted around the room. Then she smiled again. A devious, seductive smile. “Ah, just the thing.” Snatching up the knife from the table, she moved across the room and cut the gilded cord from the heavy velvet drapes before he could mutter a single word of protest.

  Wrapping the delicate cord around her wrists, she snapped it once, then again. “Perfect You have thought of everything, I see.” She approached him like a jungle cat. Sleek, dangerous. Hungry.

  He’d thought of everything. Right. Not hardly. He sure as hell hadn’t banked on this. His eyes fixated on the drape cords. Surely she wasn’t meaning to…? That was his fantasy, dammit.

  “Kat” he said, then noted the gleam in her eye. “Er, mistress, master, whatever. Really, I think this has gone far en-UMPH!”

  Flattened on his back with his wife straddled across his chest Jake fought the urge to laugh. “What are you—OW! Careful, that’s not a pillow!”

  She distracted him with a kiss, and while Jake lost himself in the pleasure of her mouth, he hardly noticed the jingle of her bangle bracelets as her hands worked above him. Only when she drew back did he realize she’d twisted the cord into a knot of precarious loops and tangles. Then with a tug and a flourish, she wound the drapery tie around his wrists a last time. She’d tied him to the side handle of a chest filled with supplies. A heavy wooden chest filled with heavy supplies.

  Well. This was unexpected.

  As quickly as she’d landed on him, she was off. Then, to his surprise, so was his djellaba.

  Naked and tied up.

  Son of a bitch.

  He gave his wrists a tug. Then another. The more he pulled, the tighter the cord drew. She crossed her arms. The jangle of those bracelets started to grate on his nerves. “I suggest you stop struggling, slave. The knot won’t give. I know my knots.”

  She looked so smug, so proud of herself, that he wanted…no, he needed…his hands on her. “Untie me.”

  “Or what? What will you do?” she purred, walking around to view her handiwork. “Punish me?”

  “I just might.”

  She laughed then, the sound rich and throaty. “I’ll look forward to it. Until then, you are mine to…savor.” Then her brows knitted. “Unless of course, you aren’t interested in continuing this little…Arabian escapade?”

  “I’ll be happy to continue playing along. Just as soon as you untie me. I want to touch you, Katrina.”

  She considered that. Then shook her head, a devilish sparkle alight in her emerald eyes. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

  “It’s a wicked thing, to tease a man so.”

  Tapping a finger against her chin, she looked him over, letting her eyes rest on one specific area. “
It’s a wicked sort of night, don’t you think?” Then she started to dance.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  KAT KNEW SHE’D PROBABLY never, ever, forget the look on Jake Kimball’s face when she tied him to the chest and stripped off his sheik’s robe. But the look on his face when she started her sultry striptease would be forever burned upon her memory. Hot, unabashed, blatant, male desire.

  Her eyes swept over him. The muted light of the candles illuminated every muscle in sensual detail. Lean and rugged and hard, every sinewy inch of Jake Kimball spoke of strength, excitement and mystery.

  He gazed at her, watching her sway to the silent music. His eyes were nearly black in the dim light of the tent, but glittering in the intense depths was challenge. And Kat McBride never backed down from a challenge.

  From the moment she walked into the tent and found him robed and waiting, she’d decided that this would be her show. When she was finished with him, he’d be lucky to remember his own name.

  Tossing him a sultry grin, she plucked at her scarves, removing them from the belted cinch one at a time, and let them flutter and fall across Jake’s prone form.

  Never could she have imagined such a fantasy.

  Never had she undressed so slowly, so seductively.

  Never had she witnessed such brazen lust burning in a man’s eyes.

  Jake watched her fingers as they removed each delicate scrap of silk. His throat worked, his body tense. Kat could almost hear the thud of his heartbeat as she continued her arousing performance.

  When there were no scarves left, Kat unlinked her belt and let it fall to the thick carpet. Shaking her hair back beyond her shoulders, she slipped down the thin straps of the gauzy chemise. With a shimmer of emerald, she stood naked before him.

  “Kat,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Taking pity on him, she approached slowly. Dropping to her knees beside him, she bent and touched her nose to his. “Do you want me?”

  “God, yes.”

  She grinned. One of the scarves lay across his stomach. Picking it up, she brushed it across his face. “Perhaps my slave should be blindfolded.”