Succumb to Me (7 page)

Winter glared at him, her jaw setting
belligerently. “I am not stubborn.”

His brows rose skeptically, but he didn’t
belabor the point. “Now, why have you come back, I wonder?” he
asked pensively as he moved around the room, lighting candles until
she could see him clearly in the golden glow.

He was dressed, she saw, in a gentleman’s
evening attire—a facade, of course. No gentleman would behave this
way.

Fleetingly, she considered her own
behavior and knew it sorely lacking, but she was inclined to
dismiss it.
He’d
driven her to
desperate measures. There were no books on etiquette to guide a
young lady through such a situation for the simple reason that
ladies rarely found themselves in her position, having to safeguard
her own reputation. Without a protector, without guidance in how to
handle it, she knew of nothing to do but pursue a course as
repugnant to her as it was necessary. For her mother’s sake if not
her own, she could not give up.

She inched toward the window.

“You know why,” she said, not daring to
glance at the window for fear of giving away her intentions yet
again.

“I’d like to hear the truth from those lush
lips of yours. It would be a pleasant change, don’t you think?”

Winter’s eyes narrowed, but she wasn’t about
to allow him to bait her into doing something rash. He was far
enough away she had a chance of escaping. Recklessly, she rushed
for the window. She’d gotten halfway out when he reached her and
grasped her around the waist, hauling her inside kicking and
flailing her arms. He deposited her on the floor and slammed the
window shut.

He looked down at her, rubbing his chin
thoughtfully, behaving as if nothing had happened. “Well? Was it to
apologize?”

Winter struggled to her feet, glaring at him.
Surreptitiously, she rubbed her butt, which had taken the brunt of
her fall.

“Apologize for what?” she said, stalling for
time. She knew she had to answer him—for he’d dog her until she
did, but she didn’t have to like it. “I came for my painting,” she
said through gritted teeth, casually looking for another venue of
escape but seeing nothing immediate.

It occurred to her that if she had a weapon,
she could bludgeon him into unconsciousness, but she doubted he’d
wait around for her to find something appropriate. He was too fast,
and his reach was too long to give her much hope of seizing
something suitable and using it before he could take it away from
her. The differences in their size had never been more apparent
before now, when she was seemingly at his mercy.

“Your painting? I beg to differ,
Winter. If you’ve come for the painting, you’ve come to
steal
my
painting. Come, sit
here with me.” Logan sat on a small sofa and patted the space
beside him, his smile easy, charming—one that could easily seduce
the unwary.

Winter wasn’t fooled, but she recognized
defeat when she saw it. She moved to the sofa and sat beside him,
stiff and unbending, as far from him as she could get on the narrow
width of the seat’s cushion. She stared unblinking ahead, but
watched him surreptitiously from the corner of her eye.

“I paid for the painting, requested the
design. It is mine,” he continued nonchalantly, stretching, then
draping his arm across the back of the seat.

Winter was well aware the scoundrel had
commissioned the painting, that it had been entirely his idea that
Giovanni had created something so scandalous, but she couldn’t see
that that entitled him to own something so damaging to her. “It was
done of me. That transfers ownership.”

“So you
did
pose nude for it? I had wondered. I admit, I
was just a bit shocked. I knew you had fire in you, beneath that
facade of ice, but I confess it hadn’t occurred to me that you were
quite so free spirited.” He shifted casually, as though merely
seeking a more comfortable position, but the movement brought his
leg into intimate contact with her own.

Just as casually, Winter moved her leg
fractionally. She turned to glare at him, resisting the urge to
assault him. “You know very well I did no such thing!”

He chuckled. “In fact, I do. But, of course,
no one save you and I and Giovanni know that for the truth and
somehow I think, if it were ever to come to light, no one would
believe any of us, should we try to dispute it.” He shrugged. “And,
of course, that has nothing to do with our current situation. We
are still at an impasse ... and you have broken into my house yet
again.”

Winter looked away, glaring at the floor. “I
am not going to allow you to punish me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my sweet ice
princess.”

“Don’t call me that!” Winter snapped.

He smiled that infuriating smile yet again,
setting her nerves on edge. “What would you have me call you?
Perhaps ... lover?”

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed. “You
are overstepping your bounds, my lord.”

“As you have?”

She didn’t answer, knowing he was right.

He chuckled, easing closer and placing his
hand on her thigh. “I have a solution to this, though I begin to
think you may not like it.”

Winter stared down at his hand as if a snake
had crawled into her lap, so stunned by his gall she couldn’t even
think how to respond to it. How dare he even think that she might
consider his outrageous proposal, or insinuate that she might
merely ‘not like’ it! She sputtered and stood up. “I wish to go ...
NOW.”

Logan sighed. “You’re fortunate that I’m even
willing to grant you this boon.”

She didn’t know whether to be relieved or
sorry that he didn’t pursue the proposal further. Instead, he stood
and walked her to the front entrance, his hand on the back of her
waist for guidance.

He opened the door but blocked her escape,
turning her to face him, gripping her shoulders firmly. “It should
be obvious to you by now that I have no intentions of either giving
you the painting, nor allowing you to steal it. If you come again
without invitation, I will assume you have come with the intention
of fulfilling my proposal and sharing my bed. Am I being clear
enough for you?”

Winter pulled away from him, squared her
shoulders and pushed past him to walk outside before facing him
again. “Crystal,” she said, regarding him coldly.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Winter kept her “promise” to Logan, if
blackmailing a person into compliance could be called that. She did
not make any more attempts to retrieve the painting herself. He’d
effectively blocked that avenue, and she didn’t like to think how
narrowly she had escaped each time. If he’d chosen to, he could
have had her arrested ... or done something far worse while she was
under his power. He hadn’t, and that had mystified her as much as
it aggravated.

She could do nothing now but wait to see what
surprise he would contrive for her.

For a week, Winter lived in a state of
gut-wrenching suspense, refusing to go out, contriving an ‘illness’
to stave off her mother’s questions, and suspicions so that she
could hide in her room—in truth, her illness wasn’t entirely
contrived, for she could neither eat, nor sleep, nor even rest for
the anxieties plaguing her as she awaited her doom. She felt
certain he intended something public and horrible, but days passed
and no whispers of scandal were printed in the papers or spread
through the streets. The servants didn’t begin to look at her with
knowing smiles, or thinly veiled sneers. There were no illicit
visits. Nothing happened.

When another week went by, Winter’s nerves
began to ease. Perhaps she’d been wrong and Lord Remington had
forgiven her transgressions and foolishness, she thought a little
hopefully.

Then the invitation arrived by messenger, and
the dread came back full force.

There was to be a ball in honor of Lord
Remington’s return, in honor of his new title. The crème de la
crème of society would be in attendance.

Winter was expected to be there—as directed
by a personal note from the devil himself. She would almost have
preferred a firing squad, but it occurred to her that she had no
choice but to obey the summons. She must do whatever it took to get
her hands on that painting and trust that the ball itself was not
to be the ‘surprise’ he’d threatened.

It occurred to her, naturally, that she might
be underestimating Logan again, that it might have been his
intentions all along to make as public a spectacle as he could
manage, setting the painting on prominent display and summoning all
of society to his home for a viewing, or unveiling it at some point
during the evening. But she was rather more inclined, given his
behavior thus far, to believe that he was not done toying with her
yet, that he had a far more wicked plan in mind.

He’d made absolutely no secret of the fact
that he expected her to purchase her reputation with her virtue. He
might merely have been toying with her even in that, trying to see
if he could make her yield so that he could then reject her offer
on the grounds that it was not enough, and proceed to display the
painting, annihilating her reputation. He might dangle it over her
head indefinitely, demanding she remain his mistress until he tired
of her.

The possibilities seemed virtually limitless
and ultimately destructive to herself, but she could see no point
in trying to figure out his eventual goal. It would not help her in
any way that she could see to know his intentions, other than,
possibly, giving her some peace.

It seemed enough, for the moment, to assume
that it would be relatively safe to attend the ball she’d been
summoned to with the belief that the ax was not to fall on that
occasion.

At any rate, it seemed unlikely that she
would get another opportunity to search for the painting.

As useless as hindsight was, she realized she
should not have said the things she had that night long ago, should
not have done what she did. Young and foolish went hand in hand,
but she saw now she had been unnecessarily harsh, too wrapped up in
her own fear of failing, her confusion about the feelings he
aroused in her, and her father’s good opinion to spare a thought
for the effect her behavior would have on him. And she would pay
for it. The bloom of bliss and wealth had shriveled into awful
awareness and powerlessness … the inability to stop her fate from
rushing to greet her. Would that she could undo the past....

A small box addressed to her and signed
by an
admirer
arrived the day
of the ball. Winter knew immediately who had sent it. She was
tempted to throw it away without looking inside, but curiosity got
the best of her and she opened the box. Enclosed in the velvet
depths was a silver chain.

Drawing it out, she saw the chain held a
charm: a silver snowflake that glittered with the brilliant fire of
white diamonds … the ice princess.

Winter stared at it, feeling anger surge
through her as she looked on it. Unconsciously, her hand curled
into a fist around it. She was on the point of hurling it across
the room when a thought occurred to her and stopped her.

She opened her palm, staring down at it once
more. He was so certain she was cold, calculating…unfeeling, only
because she had thoughtlessly injured him once.

Perhaps she should be an ice princess?
Perhaps she should show him just how cold she could be. She held it
up, allowing it to sway gently, smiling as she studied the cold
glitter of the diamonds.
Let it be a
talisman against
him
, she
thought. She smiled at the thought.

Despite her bravado, the moment she put it on
she felt immediately like a noose had tightened around her
throat.

She dismissed her misgivings, deciding he
would not find her an easy target to humiliate or ruin. A painting
and jewelry did not mean he owned her, regardless of what he might
think. He would regret ensnaring her in his designs. She would make
certain of it.

The night of the ball arrived, warmer than
the day had been, as if the fires of hell worked in accordance with
Logan Cordell, awaiting her entrance to their depths with open
arms.

She was as prepared as she could be, given
the situation. She wore her best gown. It had been fashionable two
seasons ago, and she knew full well that all of society would
consider it a sign of her poverty that she had worn it again, but
there was nothing to be done about it.

She and her mother did not have the coin to
spend frivolously on new gowns when the old ones were still of some
use. And, in truth, she had long since ceased to suffer a great
deal of anxiety over what her peers thought … or, at least that was
what she regularly told herself, hoping that, eventually, it would
be true.

On this night, it was. She had far too much
to worry about already to spare much thought to her impoverished
situation. Her family’s straightened circumstances was a known
fact, impossible to hide anymore. It was one thing, however, to
find oneself in straightened circumstances, and quite another to
have one’s morals called into question. She might not be considered
a good matrimonial match, but at least, if she could keep her
reputation intact, she was still considered genteel, and relatively
safe from indecent proposals.