Love's Portrait (8 page)

“Oh God.” She squirmed beneath his heated strokes.

“In your fantasies do I always make you this hot and creamy?” His voice was raw with desire as he teased her with one sensation after another.

She moaned at the explosion of sensation spiraling through her body. Her hips shifted restlessly, writhing beneath his expert touch. Never in her life had she experienced anything like this. Heat engulfed her, and she clutched at his jacket as pleasure streaked through her.

“Admit it, you like what I’m doing to you.” His mouth nibbled at her ear.

“N…no. I…”

“
Admit it
.” His fingers delved into her in a sinfully delicious thrust and her insides curled with tension.

“Dear Lord,
yes
. Yes, I like it.” The words were a hoarse cry of need. In the deep recesses of her mind, she barely recognized the voice as her own. It was as though she was on fire from the inside out. He continued to tease her, his fingers working an incredible magic on her body.

“Soon, very soon, my sweet, I’m going to fill you completely. I’m going to enjoy having this tight cunny of yours squeezing on my hot cock until you make me explode with pleasure.”

There was a roughness to his voice indicated how aroused he was at the moment, while the erotic image he’d described filled her with a numbing heat. The words only served to make her hotter and she bucked against his hand. Her body craved more and she moaned low in her throat. His thumb swirled around her sensitive nub nestled in her slick folds.

“Damn, you’re going to feel good wrapped around my cock. It’s going to be like hot, liquid velvet wrapping around me.” He rubbed harder at the spot between her legs until the caress tugged the last breath of air from her lungs. With a jerk, her body surged upward against his hand just before she exploded. Intense waves of sensation rolled over her and small shudders shook her body. Dazed she opened her eyes to look at him. Before she knew what she was doing, her hand cupped his cheek. She could see the desire in his eyes, and she knew he wanted her. And she wanted him. Desperately.

But she couldn’t say the words. This was a wager to him. There could only be one night between them. Anything more and she realized she might very well be lost. But oh God, how she wanted that night now. This very instant.

As if he could read her mind, he quirked an eyebrow upward and smiled. “No. I don’t think so. Not yet, even though the thought is quite tempting.”

Appalled by her wanton behavior and the desire still curling in her stomach, she shoved her way out of his arms and rose to her feet. She was mortified to know he was toying with her. She didn’t want this man to control her, but already his touch was capable of holding her captive to wicked pleasure and delight. The thought frightened and angered her. With shaking hands, she straightened her clothing and tried to regain her composure.

“I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. St. Claire.”

“Why? Because I refuse to take you here and now?”

She whirled away and stalked toward the window. Hands pressed against her belly, she tried to still the churning inside her.

“I don’t understand you. I have said I will honor my debt, and yet you toy with me as a cat does a mouse. I care little for the sensation.”

“And it’s sensation I want you to feel, Julia. I want the woman I saw in that portrait—lusty, bold and adventurous.” Joining her at the window, he turned her to face him. “I want you to come to my bed of your own free will.”

“That portrait was not for anyone to see. It’s not real. That woman doesn’t exist.” Fists clenching the fabric of her green silk skirts, she grew stiff as a metal rod as he dipped his head toward her.

“You’re wrong, Julia. That woman exists. A good artist always sees beneath the surface. You’re simply afraid.”

“I am not,” she exclaimed with anger. But even as she spoke, she knew he was right. And she didn’t like having to admit Morgan St. Claire might be right about something where she was concerned. She watched his eyes narrow with a speculative gleam until determination filled his expression.

One hand pressed against the base of her throat, she inhaled a ragged breath. God help her, she didn’t know how she was going to fulfill her wager without losing a part of herself to him. He studied her for a long moment before he shook his head with a gleam of frustration in his dark blue eyes.

“Today was a step in the right direction. We’ll see about expanding your horizons tomorrow night at the St. Claire Fete.”

His soft voice sent trepidation sliding down her back. No. She needed to throw herself on his mercy and have done with it. If he continued this seduction, she would be lost. Not looking at him, she laced her fingers together, trying not to tremble.

“Wouldn’t tonight be a better opportunity?” The sooner this was done, the sooner she could regain her sanity.

“No, I have an appointment this evening.”

For a fleeting instant, she found herself wondering what woman would be in his bed tonight. It wouldn’t be her, and the knowledge nipped at her like an angry puppy. She turned away from him to watch the traffic in the street below. A strong arm wrapped around her waist as he pulled her back into his chest. His mouth nibbled at her ear.

“And no, my sweet, it’s not another woman.”

Appalled that he’d been able to read her thoughts, she jerked away from him and put several feet between them. “I care little as to whom you entertain, St. Claire.”

“So you say—but your face is quite expressive, Julia. Even more so when you climax beneath my touch.”

With a wicked grin on his lips, he strode from the salon, leaving her to sputter with indignation as the door closed behind him. The man was insufferable and far too arrogant. Climax indeed. The thought made her cheeks burn with mortification. When a woman had sexual relations with her husband or lover, it was suppose to be about the man’s pleasure. Oscar had made that very clear.

The memory chilled her. Pleasure had been the farthest thing from her husband’s mind when he’d come to her bed. He’d been a rutting boar, spilling his seed in her without one thought of her comfort or pleasure.

Her husband had disgusted her. She’d been grateful when after nearly two years of marriage he’d stopped coming to her bed. Her inability to have a child had earned her nothing but his contempt, but she had gladly accepted it in place of his sexual attentions.

A tremor wracked her body as she remembered how differently Morgan made her feel. She had experienced no disgust at his touch. In truth, it had been exciting. Exhilarating even. The thought made her heart skip. She did not want to let the man excite or exhilarate her. She simply wanted to fulfill her debt and be done with him.

Of course, what she wanted and what Morgan St. Claire wanted were two different things. The man wouldn’t disappear from her life until it suited him. And
that
was what worried her.

Chapter 5

Standing in the loft overlooking the warehouse floor, Morgan watched the spirited party below. The building had been emptied for the annual St. Claire Fete, and at one end of the large storage facility, the band he’d hired was playing an Irish jig. On the makeshift dance floor, his employees and their guests danced with an exuberance that pleased him. There was an unrestrained freedom in the boisterous antics of the dancers as they cavorted to the music.

Like the partygoers, he wore no jacket, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up past his elbows. He wanted his employees to feel comfortable. Dressing in the same manner they did removed the barrier of wealth that usually existed between them. His father was no doubt rolling in his grave. The man had always worked his employees hard, never realizing that people tended to work harder when they were treated well.

When his father had died, Morgan had made changes almost overnight. His actions had propelled St. Claire Shipping forward until it was even more successful now than it had been in his father’s time. A grim smile of satisfaction tilted one corner of his mouth. It would have irritated his father immensely to know that his son had proven to be a better business man.

His shoe tapped lightly against the planks of the loft floor as his gaze scanned the activities below. Across the dance floor from the band, temporary tables made out of sawhorses and planks lined the wall. Covered with colorful blue-checked tablecloths, the tables sagged with a bountiful assortment of meats, vegetables, breads and the Clarendon’s famous cranberry scones.

It was a sight never seen in his father’s time, but then his father had never been one to coddle the workers. His father had thought solely of his own amusement. Morgan clenched his jaw as he remembered the lack of interest his father had shown in him until he came of age. Then the man had wanted him to take on the family business. Originally, Morgan had thought to refuse, but short of funds, he’d had little choice.

When his father had died only a few months after Morgan joined the company, he’d had the opportunity to rid himself of St. Claire Shipping. Something inside him compelled him not to sell, and the decision to keep the business had made him a wealthy man. For all intents and purposes, he was content with his life, but occasionally he felt as though something were missing. He frowned.

What could possibly be missing? The word
home
whispered its way through his head. He immediately scoffed at the notion. The idea that he needed a place to call home was laughable. The Clarendon was all that he needed in the way of a home. A miserable childhood with an indifferent father and a mother who found the sight of him unbearable was enough to convince even the hardiest of souls not to wish for a place to call home. His jaw tightened at the unpleasant memories.

On the floor below, he saw an older couple enjoying the party from the sidelines. The man had an arm around his wife as he spoke into her ear. It amazed him how many of his employees were happily married despite their harsh lives. On occasion, he’d visited their homes to check on sick employees. Despite their woes, there was a warmth in their homes that he’d long for until he’d remind himself of his childhood.

As a boy, he’d believed a home of his own would be someplace he could escape to, but when he was old enough, he realized it wasn’t possible. A house symbolized marriage and all the discord that went with it. And marriage was an institution to be avoided at any cost. Shrugging off the morose images, he folded his arms across his chest and studied the party goers.

From this height, he could easily see the comings and goings of everyone in the building. Several of his investors stood around the large keg of ale he’d brought in for the occasion. His most important investor had yet to arrive, and he shrugged his shoulders in an impatient gesture. He didn’t like the fact that he was so eager to see Julia.

The woman was occupying his thoughts far too much for his comfort. He simply needed to bed her and get his lust for her out of his system. In the same instant, he knew that wasn’t possible. If he forced her into his bed before he’d wooed her sufficiently, the result wouldn’t be to his liking.

He needed to take his time with her. Julia was a complex creature, but he was certain of one thing. Fear kept her wrapped up in that mantle of repression she wore with such vigor. But she’d not been able to completely suppress her curiosity. It was there in her eyes, in the way she responded to his kisses. Even more intriguing was that she didn’t seem to fear society’s judgment. If that were true, she never would have dared to invest her money in St. Claire Shipping or any other business venture.

Not to mention her active involvement with her investment. No, she wasn’t frightened by society’s opinion. If anything, she demonstrated her determination to flaunt the restrictive rules of present day mores. No, something else frightened her. The key to unlocking Julia so she became the woman in Peebles’ painting was finding out what really frightened her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his younger clerks bow to a partner before sweeping her into his arms and out onto the floor. Again, his gaze swept over the crowd below him searching for some sign of Julia. Damn it, where was she? The muscle in his jaw tightened at the thought she might not have any intention of coming despite her words to the contrary. His fingers bit into his arms as he glared down at the dancers. Christ, one would think he’d lost his senses when it came to the woman.

He caught another glimpse of his clerk spinning his partner around the dance floor and frowned. There was something familiar about the woman’s dark hair. The way the light caught the golden highlights in the dark red—damnation. With a grunt of exasperation, he wheeled on the back of his heel and strode along the loft’s landing to the stairs leading to the floor.

She’d lost her mind. It was the only explanation. Why else would she dress like one of his employees and dance with Bentley? The woman obviously didn’t realize how easily her presence could stir up trouble with men who’d been drinking. Not to mention the potential for jealousy where the womenfolk were concerned. The music came to a halt as he reached the dance floor.

Weaving his way through the crowd, he saw the clerk bow once more in front of Julia. Flushed from the exertion of the dance, she was radiant. Hell, she wasn’t just radiant—she looked exactly like Peebles had painted her. His groin immediately tightened. She was laughing at something the boy had said when he came to a halt in front of them.

From the way Bentley blanched as their eyes met, Morgan knew his expression was forbidding. Christ Jesus, the boy didn’t deserve his anger. The only person deserving of his ire was himself. From the beginning, Julia had twisted him into knots, and his fascination hadn’t abated. If anything, it was growing in a way that made him feel possessive of her. Determined to put his clerk at ease, Morgan forced a smile to his lips. “I see you managed to persuade Mrs. Westgard to take to the floor, Bentley.”

“Yes…yes, sir, Mr. St. Claire. I didn’t like seeing her standing on the sidelines. Wasn’t socially polite.”