Judith Ivory (24 page)

“You wild thing, you,” he told her. “I could teach you dirty expressions, if that’s where your curiosity leads you. In five different languages.” He clicked his tongue, a mock risqué sound, then said, “How about, if you win, you can flip cards at my ear. How’s that?”

She shook her head at herself, reddening a little. Oh, Stuart. She hated him; he entertained her. He made her laugh. He frightened her, outraged her. He made her dissolve into tears of mirth.

“For myself,” he told her, “I’ll take a kiss. That’s all I want, if I win. Though a long one. So is card-flipping sufficient for you? Is it commensurate with a ‘kissing game,’ as you call it? Name your price, Mrs. Hotchkiss, and deal the cards.”

She frowned at him. “How long in ‘a long kiss’?”

“Five minutes.”

She shook her head, almost laughed, but held it at bay. “Too long,” she said seriously.

“Three.”

“One.”

He harrumphed. “Whatever you want better be small. A minute of kissing you is hardly worth anything. What’ll it be?”

She began, not knowing where she was going. “If I win—” She paused, then settled on, “If I win, you stop this. You forget awarding anyone medals for—well, for deeds better off not done. You let this whole”—she had to consciously allow herself to pronounce the word,
“sexual
business go. You stop entirely.” She leaned onto her side of the desk, leveling a se
rious gaze down on him. “We can’t afford it, not in any sense, and it’s making me crazy.”

“All right,” he said. “If you win.”

Which seemed to give him carte blanche if she lost. “And your coat,” she added. “Since you already should be leaving me alone.”

“My coat?” He laughed, startled. “Against kissing you for a minute? I don’t think so. Ten minutes.”

“Five.”

“All right. And a coat
like
mine; mine wouldn’t fit you anyway. I’ll have yours lined with fur, any you name. If you win.”

“Fine.”

They looked at each other. Then Emma grabbed a chair on her way over, plonked it down on the opposite side of the desk, sat her bottom on it, then held out her hand. “I’ll deal.”

“You will not. We’ll cut for the deal.”

The game was laid. More or less. They counted out fifteen tiles apiece, which Emma complained was too few for much of a game. She was right. When he bet all his remaining tile on the second hand, she didn’t have enough to call.

“And you’re bluffing,” she said. “You think you can out-power me because you have more tiles than I do after only one hand. That’s unfair. Let me call with what I have.”

“You only have four tiles. I just put in eight.”

“Take back four.”

“No. I have a good hand. I want to win a lot with it.”

“You’re bluffing,” she said again.

“All right. I’ll allow you to call with your four and my nightshirt. The one you’re wearing. I won’t even make you ante it up—you can keep it on till you actually lose.”

Emma twisted her mouth, her tongue to a side tooth. He didn’t have a good hand. She did—she had two pair, queens and jacks. “Agreed,” she said quickly, and pushed her last four tiles to the center of the desk.

He laid down a full house, kings high. She pursed her lips, frowning at his cards.

“More tiles,” she said.

“The nightshirt first.”

She raised her eyes to his. “We’ve only played two hands. I told you we needed more tiles to make it fun.”

“I’m having fun,” he insisted. Smiling, he pointed at the nightshirt she wore, which she had been so blithe with.

She balked, smiled, cajoled. “Don’t be mean.”

He twisted his mouth. “I fully will, when the time comes, but, all right, if you’re going to be a poor sport about it.” He lectured with a finger as he dealt out a dozen more tiles complaining, “I would bet money that, if
I
had lost in two hands, I’d have to pay up with a rather expensive coat. Now, I have to win twice—”

She stacked her tiles, then offered four out. “And I want to buy the nightshirt back.”

“No.” He smiled. “You can win it back. We leave it in the pot. Bet, if you want it back.”

Cocky blighter, she thought. She could beat him; she was a more experienced player than he. Then the next hand, even after drawing three extra cards, all she possessed was a pair of nines, jack high. Was he cheating? Was he stacking the deck somehow?

She smiled at him as if she held a flush.

And watched him put all his damn tiles into the center again.

She threw her cards down and stood. “Oh, for godssake, what kind of a game is this? You’re cheating.”

He reached swiftly across the desk and pulled all the cards, hers included, into a pile in the center of the desk, then said, “Take it off.”

“What?” She watched him tap the cards into a neat pile, both amazed and irritated. “Wait one minute. Gathering the cards that fast is the lamest old ploy in the business: for a player whose hand was bust.”

“The nightshirt. I won.”

“No, you didn’t. You took my cards. I intended to call you. What did you have?”

He laughed. “It doesn’t matter. You folded.”

“I did not. You grabbed the cards up before I could call. I had a pair of kings,” she lied. “On your honor, what did you have?”

“A royal flush,” he said and laughed heartily. “Nice try. Take off the nightshirt.” With his thumbs, he aligned the edges of the deck neatly, then almost absently shuffled. The cards fluttered in his hands, obedient. “I lived in Monte Carlo for a year. Did I mention that? I did nothing but gamble there, mostly cards. I won, Emma.” He looked up, cackled in that wicked way he had, then said, “The only thing better than a woman standing across from you in your own nightshirt is a woman standing without it: because you bluffed her with a pair of threes. Take it off.”

“You cheated!”

“I bluffed. You threw your hand down because you believed my hand was much better than it was. Em, I tend to follow the rules—I’m a member of Parliament, remember? We make them. You’re the cheater.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Bluffing?” He laughed. “Bluffing is the way the game is played. It’s the heart of the game.”

She hated the schoolgirl sound of herself in her own ears, yet what she felt was nothing mature. “You wouldn’t. You’re a gentleman!”

“No, actually, I’m not: That’s also a bluff. Come on, Emma. You already know that.”

“Monte Carlo,” she muttered. He’d conned her.

She was furious, yet something deep down was laughing. It was funny. She was funny. And the conning of cons wasn’t over yet. She still held an ace he wasn’t acknowledging.

She stood up and backed away in her blanket. She let out a dramatic sigh, a woman resigned. “If you think you’re having the nightshirt before the kissing part, think again. First, the kiss. Then the nightshirt.”

He blinked, stood up partly, looking a little flummoxed that any of this was coming his way at all. He hadn’t believed she’d pay up.

Oh, she’d pay up all right. She’d kiss him voluptuously, strip naked, and walk out. It would serve him right.

Things started out all right. Stuart came around the desk cautiously, watching her. Then he drew her into his arms by her hand. He snugged the blanket up around her, then reached one arm inside, under it, and pulled her against him.

He wasn’t wearing anything at all under his nightshirt. Of course. She’d known that. No man did. Yet it came as a kind of surprise to her own body, also naked beneath her nightshirt: nothing but two heavy silk nightshirts between them. Then his mouth on hers.

She couldn’t remember how long, what the point was, how they’d come to this, not much of anything, as he kissed her: only that her own intent had been to kiss him back and enjoy it, even entice him. Yes, that was the plan. A perfectly good plan. Tongues, teeth…warm, gentle lips…strong arms around her…a firm, long, muscular body against hers. A body that grew interested in the way a man’s did almost immediately. That part of a man’s body that could be so light grew thick and heavy; it began to prod against her belly.

Her head felt light as Stuart let her go. She staggered a little, but found her balance. “Th-there,” she said.

He wasn’t smiling any longer, his face serious, his breathing audible with the rise and fall of his chest.

Emma stepped back. She shook her head. “We’re being foolish,” she murmured. “We were inventing a way to do this and—” She pressed her mouth into a line. “And we shouldn’t. It’s going to make it too difficult in London. And after that—oh, after that, I’ll still live down the hill from you. Let’s say good night. Let’s stop right here.”

He shook his head. “Take off the nightshirt,” he whispered.

She frowned deeply. “It won’t do you any good. I’ve fig
ured myself out. I won’t—” She broke off. He didn’t believe her or else he didn’t care. “Fine,” she said. “Be an idiot: I’m going to take it off, then walk out on you.”

All he answered was, “Move toward the fire. You’re going to be cold.” He was absolutely in earnest.

She undid the first button slowly, trying to gather herself. Her hands shook.

He wet his lips and took a step back, allowing enough room between them to see up the full length of her.

Sarcastically, meanly, she asked, “So do you want it over my head or down my shoulders?”

He looked surprised that she even had a voice. “What?” As if he no longer spoke English.

“The nightshirt. Do you want it off going up or coming down?”

“Oh, here, let me.” He came forward.

“Oh, no.” She walked backward, away from him. “You won your nightshirt. I’ll give it to you. If you take it, though, well, I’d consider such action in the same league as, well, pickle-me-tickle-me without my consent.” She felt the faintest smile, as if it lived in her belly, warmed her there.

He looked alarmed for a second, then made a low and soft laugh. Playing. It was a serious game they were playing, but involving. Deeply involving. And she was taking part in it. There was nothing dangerous here so much as a line they pushed back and forth. It was a game where neither of them exactly knew the outcome, because neither controlled it completely.

“All right, I won’t touch you,” he said. But next thing she knew, he was right beside her, pulling her blanket away. He tossed it, then his finger touched the neckline of her nightshirt.

“Stop,” she said immediately, even a little angrily. “You can’t touch me.”

“Of course not,” he said. “I was touching my nightshirt, which I won fair and square.” He began at the buttons himself, opening the placket, very businesslike. She watched as
he slid his finger into it and helped himself to a glimpse of the inside curve of her breast. “How very”—he let out a breath—“wonderfully rounded you are.”

She felt another little jolt of arousal, a fearsome strength to it. The sensation settled in a knot at her belly while she looked at him, making a line of her mouth, part put out, part riveted, engaged in what they made up as they went along.

She held her arms out. “Fine. If you can take the nightshirt off without touching me—” She didn’t even get the sentence completely out. Immediately, his hands clasped her waist, lifting her, nightshirt and all. “Wh-what are you doing? You-you’re touching me!”

“No, I’m not. I’m carrying my nightshirt over to the pillows by the fire. You just happen to be in it. You should thank me, in fact. You’re going to be damn cold without it.”

On the pillows, where he unceremoniously plopped her, he ran his hand straight down the nightshirt, from her collarbone, down over a breast, to her belly, curving his hand to go lower—

Emma started wiggling and sputtering, “My God, my God, my God, let me get this dratted thing off!”

A slightly bizarre struggle ensued: She, of all people, struggled wildly to get out of the nightshirt, while Stuart tried to keep it on her, touching her through it in the most unholy ways, unspeakable—

Until, with a lift of her arms and a blast of cool air up the front of her, she won at last, panting from her efforts: naked on a stack of pillow by his fire, all but for a pair of slippers, with him on his knees, panting over her. Staring down.

Won? Goose bumps of cold chilled her skin, even next to the fire.

“So get up and go now,” he murmured, a contradiction to the fact that he straddled her on his shins. Then he did something so unfair, unconscionable. He slowly dragged his eyes up the length of her till his gaze had risen to her face, then, shaking his head, he said ever so softly, earnestly, “I am wild
for you, Emma Hotchkiss. Over the moon. In heaven when I’m near you, happiest when I’m touching you.”

Then he lowered himself over her completely, hands at either sides of her shoulders as he took his weight down onto his forearms. His body came to rest on hers, the feel of his both heavy and lithe. And warm, so warm.

He added, “And if you think you’re getting up and going anywhere anytime soon, you are very much mistaken.”

His double-lined robe was soft and light and warm as he pulled it over both of them—he brought it up over them as if it were Count Dracula’s cape, covering them both with it. Even the first thing he did was to put his mouth to her neck and gently bite. Aah. She turned her head to give him better access and felt something in her shoot forward, as if she’d realigned herself, was suddenly swimming with a current she hadn’t known was there; she felt a momentum that had been waiting for her: where turning herself over to him was as easy as rushing along in a swift, strong stream.

Beneath the sheltering robe, he stripped away his own nightshirt, shouldering out of sleeves and pulling a wad of it from between them. Emma found herself helping him. Then skin. When his skin settled against her, the humid heat of Stuart’s flesh, the weight of his bones, her head reeled. She felt the thickness of him trapped between them a moment, then he pushed himself up onto his arms, shifted his weight.

Looking down at her, his dark eyes dilated to black, he said, “Say it.”

“What?”

“Tell me you want me inside you.”

Her body quivered. She wanted him inside her so badly, she lifted partway up, reaching for him. “Yes.” Alas. “I want you, yes.”

He entered her, a swift, deep thrust, and her hips rose to meet his. He remained straight-armed, above her, his shoul
ders and chest flexed, their bodies joined at their sexes, and they both held, staring.