Angel Hands (13 page)

"Why not you?"

"It's not like it was at the opera house. I can't be your agent or do anything for you anymore. There's no reason to taunt me."

"Perhaps I enjoy it."

"What about Kristin?"

"What about her?" he replied, his expression unchanging.

"She's the one you want in this bed, not me."

"Actually...no."

Mireille stared at him, dumbstruck. He smiled slightly at her expression, then wrapped his hand around her shoulder and pushed her down onto the pillows. He let his hand travel down from her shoulder to her chest, down between her breasts and abdomen until it struck the line of her waist and hip again, where it finally came to rest.

She gasped for air like a drowning man and made one more desperate lunge for the lifeboat of reason.

"You didn't answer my question," she whispered. "Why me?"

Abandoning her waist, he tugged one strap off her shoulder, and let his fingers trace the line of fabric across her chest, teasing it slightly lower without revealing the true prize. She froze and swallowed hard, feeling her grasp on reason slip as the waters of desire closed over her head.

"You can still be...quite useful to me," he said, lowering his lips so that they brushed her ear. "I have a new venture that requires me to have...a competent agent."

With those words, her heart, which had been thumping furiously, gave one last gallump and fell back into the slower, more sober pace of logic. All the desire in her body fizzled out, leaving nothing but a char of humiliation.

She fought the pricking of tears behind her eyes. He didn't want her. It was just his usual game. She bit her lip and pushed against him with all her might, a surge of righteous anger swelling through her. How could he have been so cruel, so mean, to humiliate her like this? To tease her that he wanted her like a man wants a woman, only to reveal her true worth to him: a glorified business manager.

He allowed himself to be pushed away, sliding off the bed easily, and regarding her with a lazy, sardonic look in his eyes.

"You will bring me my clothes this instant!" she fumed.

"I already told you that wouldn't be possible," he said in the most mild, reasonable voice.

"I will not be party to any of your schemes anymore!"

"Would you rather marry Carcasonne?"

She bit back her retort and squared her shoulders. "I will not do anything you ask me to."

"I thought that would be your response. That is why, dear mademoiselle, I have selected these apartments for you."

"What do you mean? Where am I?"

"You are in a rather...specialized...house of assignation."

She felt her heart drop into her stomach. "Specialized?" she managed to rasp out.

His smile was cruel and mocking now. "Yes, for those patrons with...unique tastes and unusual propensities. You will remain here until you agree to be my agent again."

"I will not! I will protest to the madam, and she will not take kindly to the idea of police action against her for unlawful imprisonment!"

His smile widened a fraction. "Of course, you may leave your room at any time to go speak to the madam. Your door shall remain unlocked at all times, unless you choose to lock it from the inside. However, I have also left instructions...and enough monetary incentives behind it...that should you leave your apartments, you are to be made available to any customer desiring your...company."

"People will be looking for me!"

"Who exactly, my dear? You are a near-penniless orphan, a drain on your guardian. An escape, or suicide, or elopement is certainly not beyond the pale for one such as you. Carcasonne might fret a bit about losing his prize, but he'll move on."

"Raymond will look for me."

"Ah yes, Raymond. A good boy, but not very creative. He won't have the slightest idea of where to look, certainly not here at La Maison Cardinal, and he will give up long before he comes close to the truth."

He took a step towards her, and she forced herself to hold her ground.

"I'm afraid you are quite alone, and quite dependent on my good will," he purred.

"And if I were to say yes?"

"Then you would, of course, be free to leave this place. Other arrangements would be made for you."

She blinked back angry tears and turned her back on him. She couldn't afford to let him see how upset she was. She needed to buy herself time. To think, to analyze, to plan an escape.

"Please leave," she said as evenly as she could manage. "I will think on what you have offered."

She felt his arms slink around her, and his massive body press into hers as his lips once again burned her ear.

"Do that," he whispered. Then he was gone.

She looked around for him, then ran to the door and locked it securely. Then she began to pace, stalking back and forth across the room, her brow furrowed.

She would find a way out of here. She wouldn't marry Carcasonne. She'd make a new life for herself.

And she would make him pay.

17. Of Whores and Cracks

He stood in the shadows to the side of her door, just as he had three times a day, every day, for the past week.

She hadn't tried to escape. Yet. He hadn't expected her to make an attempt that soon, either. His Mireille was not stupid. She would wait to see the various servants who came, judging their relative strength and stupidity until she found her mark.

He had happily played into that game with her, arranging that the servants be progressively smaller, weaker...and more feminine. Little Sandrine now entering the room was barely more than a child, perhaps fourteen at most. She had served Mireille now for two days. His stubborn little business manager should be just at her breaking point, ready to make a break for it, despite the fact that she wore considerably less than most of the bold whores who lounged about the house and strode through the halls.

Ah yes, the selection of Mireille's wardrobe had admittedly been decadently pleasurable. If it wasn't sheer, it had been short. If it wasn't short, it had plunged deeply in the front and back. If it wasn't plunging, it was satin that rubbed against her skin in ways guaranteed to produce a burn...a burn that he would play on and play to...build it into a flame he fervently prayed he wouldn't be burned by.

But he needed her. And she needed him. There was no love in his heart for this broken spinster, but there was...pity. And admiration for her courage.

Despite the dullness of her grief, there was that grand spark still in her that made him feel alive.

This little stay in La Maison Cardinal was not about breaking Mireille to the point where she was the simple puppet that jumped at ghosts—bitter memories of past mistakes rose like bile and were pushed down. No, this was about fanning the spark into a roaring blaze that would bring Mireille back and fill his life with the thrill of battle.

She was a worthy opponent, and she could be a supreme ally—though not an easy one. He fought not to smile as he thought of the ways he would try to win their arguments.

No, at this moment, he watched little Sandrine knock on the door and announce herself. If not this time, then the next, he felt. Mireille lacked his endless patience, just as he could benefit from her relentless drive.

Ah! There it was, the clatter of plates to the ground. In a flash, Mireille was out the door, but he was faster...and, he was prepared.

The Punjab Lasso snapped around her neck, and only his extreme control kept it from instantly cracking her fragile bones.

"Actions have consequences, Mireille," he hissed, catching her to his body, the slack of the rope looped around his fist as he brought his grip up close to her neck. "I keep my promises."

Ah God, it was good to feel her body against his! He held his little hellcat against his form as he practically dragged her through the sitting room back into the bedroom and locked the door.

He spun her around, deftly moving the Punjab Lasso from her neck to her wrists, tying them together. Before she could even realize what was happening, he had her on the bed, wrists yanked above her head by the rope he held as he straddled her and pinned her down with his hand around her throat.

Her gasps were harsh and inarticulate as she took in the vital air that had been denied her, but her eyes were eloquent in their rage. That rage was a potent drug for him, and though it was a menacing sneer that he approached, his face to hers, inside, he was flying.

"Do you want to know what would happen to you if you were to leave this room before I give you permission?" he snarled. "I will show you!"

"You motherless jackanapes!" Mireille yelled as best she could. "You...you...lily-livered toad! You are a-"

He paused, waiting for it. Monster. It was there already echoing in his head.

"A pudding-bellied ox!" she finished, thrashing against him.

"Your vocabulary has improved," he chuckled, trying to cover up the confusion he felt that she had once again not used the easiest weapon at hand, the one literally right in front of her face.

"The only damn book in here is a volume of Shakespeare!"

"Ah, but there is so much more to Shakespeare than insults," he purred, allowing himself to begin by running his hand up her flat belly and between her breasts until it cupped the back of her head.

His fingers suddenly dug cruelly into her hair and yanked her head back. It would have been so easy to kiss her lips like this, but somehow, that didn't seem right. A kiss was...a sacrament of lovers, a blessing to be given, and in many cases, a commodity to be sold. He did not love Mireille, but she was no whore, either.

Her throat was arched and bared to him, a long, white line of perfection. Instead of a kiss, he drew the tip of his tongue up from her collarbone to the lobe of her ear.

"Stop!" Mireille gasped, struggling against him and pulling futilely against the ropes on her wrists. "Stop it! You have no right!"

"'I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure'," he quoted, using her Shakespeare against her and speaking with his lips against her throat, his rumbling voice creating a vibration against her skin.

"My pleasure would be to rip your balls off-oh!" Her words were strangled by the way he firmly grabbed her thigh and hitched her leg around his hips.

"'That I might touch! But kiss, one kiss'," he recited, using the magnificent instrument of his voice to convey a hunger, desire and obsession that would shake Mireille to her bones.

He suited word to action, then, moving to cup her satin-covered breasts in his hands and press a chaste kiss against one, feeling the hard nub rise up to his lips. How could a man resist such a silent plea?

Yet, was he even a man? Never had he touched a woman this way. Never even been kissed until Kris-no, this was no time for her name. Mireille had been the first woman truly in his arms, the first to feel his heat against her, and yes, even the first to respond. He could not doubt that.

He glanced up at Mireille, suddenly noticing she had fallen silent, save for deep, shuddering breaths, and that her thrashing had turned to arching. Her eyes were heavy and half-lidded, her lips pouting slightly.

He was already hard, but the sight of her lost in lust and helplessly tied to the bed made him throb in the agony of need. He couldn't afford to give in, though, to lose the game just yet. He had to stay in control somehow.

It didn't help that she was beginning to slowly buck and grind against him, her inexperienced hips moving with a tentative urgency. He grit his teeth. No! He would not be unmanned like that.

"'I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap'," he growled, grabbing her hips in an iron grip and stilling them.

"No...anh..." Mireille grit her teeth, then bit her lower lip in a way that nearly had him lunging to kiss her, to bite that lip himself. "Let...me...go," she panted.

"The lesson has only just begun, Mireille," he said softly.

She struggled against the ropes again. Next time, he realized he would have to use silk. There would be bruises, burns, and cuts on those little wrists when they later came to untie her. But let her struggle for now. Let her feel the slide into surrender as her body turned traitor to her.

He continued his torturous lesson, caressing her and teasing her, skirting the edge of her satisfaction time and time again while denying his own.

Later, he would reflect on this precious time spent so close to a woman's body, a unique occurrence in a life that had been marked by shunning and isolation from touch. But for now, pride rolled through him as she wailed in frustrated ecstasy. Monster though he might be, he could still please a woman, just like any other man.

Oh God, it would be so easy to pull up the hem of this gown and slip himself into her, to feel what every man felt with a lover or a wife. No. No, the game. He had to play the game. Grinding his teeth, he saw the dazed eyes and unheeded tears.

His heart gave an odd lurch, and he had the urge to untie her, but he restrained that impulse. He could not do so, would not do so until she had agreed to his terms.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"You are impassioned by me," he corrected, leaning over her, bringing their faces close enough that he could have kissed her—had he wanted to.

"What is it you want?" she asked, and with those words, he heard the first crack in the cup. "To destroy me?"

"No."

He allowed himself the luxury of softly rubbing his good cheek against hers—just as any man would do with any woman.

"I know what you want, Mireille," he said, making his voice soft like a lullaby. "I know what you crave. You like power. You like games, and you like winning."

He caressed a hand down her side, feeling her shiver against the sensation.

"I can give you what you want," he continued to chant softly. "I can give you the power you desire."

"You have nothing that I want!" she retorted, but the vicious snap was lacking in her voice. Another crack in the cup.