The Earl's Secret (6 page)

But she didn't need the temptation of sharing a private apartment with the man. No, she didn't need
that
at all. Whenever he came near, her body seemed to shift into a higher gear. All he had to do was fix her with those amazing eyes—Parrish blue, she thought. Named for the artist who had become so famous for that intoxicatingly rich hue. She felt a subtle anticipation take over.

As for Christopher, she didn't know what he was thinking about their arrangement. He liked to flirt, and obviously enjoyed the company of women. But he hadn't pressed his advantage at Donan. She decided that whatever urges she felt probably weren't shared by him. Somehow, she'd have to work out her own tangled emotions, if not in London, then after she returned home.

For now, Jennifer concentrated on the job at hand.
She explained the situation as diplomatically as possible to her party. No one seemed particularly concerned about her alternate accommodations except Mr. and Mrs. Kiley, the complainers, who didn't disappoint. She saw everyone to their rooms, made sure they each had a copy of the itinerary for the rest of the day and arranged for a meeting time after a few personal hours for shopping or a nap.

While she waited for Christopher to return, she sat in the hotel lounge and ordered tea and biscuits for herself, less to satisfy her appetite than to encourage a clearer state of mind. Before she knew it, she would be on a jet heading back to the States, and Christopher would remain in England. The problem was, she reminded herself as she sipped her steaming Earl Grey, not only were they from opposite sides of the Atlantic, they were from two vastly different cultures and economic backgrounds.

He was passionately involved in restoring one of his family's historic homes. But he was doing it without regard to cost or his own living expenses. The business he'd spoken of wasn't anything like Murphy's Worldwide Escapes. It was personal business. He had no real “job.” If she chose to stop working and do whatever amused or interested her, she'd starve within a month. Christopher, on the other hand, entertained lavishly, owned a small herd of polo ponies and collected priceless artwork.

She didn't begrudge the man his pleasures, but his fast, unconventional lifestyle troubled her, and the possibility of becoming involved with a man like that terrified her. Her father, by spending frivolously and shirking honest work, had destroyed their family. His gambling debts alone had nearly ruined her mother's
business and nearly lost them their home. His womanizing had shattered her mother's heart. A thousand times over Jennifer had sworn she would never let herself fall under the power of a man like that.

Yet last night she had come alarmingly close to sleeping with just that sort of person. A man who combined her rascal father's worst traits, only on a higher fiscal level! They both had a weakness for horse flesh; they both had their magical ways with women. Sighing, she sipped her tea. It was definitely a good thing she hadn't given herself to the earl of Winchester last night. Definitely.

 

Christopher picked up the key to Geoffrey Montgomery's flat from his neighbor. He let himself in, opened windows to air out the place and checked the fridge. Supplies were low. He decided to pick up a bottle of wine, some fresh fruit, a wedge of cheese—perhaps a good Stilton or Cheshire—and a half dozen fine, spicy English bangers. Just enough to tide the two of them over should they need a late-night snack. Half an hour later he was back with the groceries, feeling cheerfully domestic as he stocked the refrigerator.

Christopher returned to the hotel to find Jennifer gathering up her crew to tour the National Portrait Gallery. He excused himself to deal with his own business but met up with them before they left the hotel for dinner. Because she'd reserved tables at The Wembley a month before the trip, there was no trouble getting everyone fed. The atmosphere during the meal and after was exuberant, and her clients all seemed well satisfied with their day's activities.

Christopher had left the Jag back in Edinburgh, so
he drove Jennifer in the van to his friend's flat and parked on the street.

She gazed up at the elegant slate-gray building. “It looks almost like a Baltimore rowhouse, only not brick,” she commented.

Christopher watched her out of the corner of his eye as they ascended the steps to the front door and let themselves in. The flat was on the second floor by British reckoning, two levels above the street, and there was no lift. It was an older building, but prized for its location in one of the trendiest parts of the city. He had promised himself, as well as her, that he wouldn't misbehave. But in the last few hours, misbehaving with Jennifer was all that had crossed his mind.

During dinner, Christopher had several times caught himself staring into his own cupped hand, imagining the way her breast had filled it. He managed to stop himself from openly staring at those lovely attributes that men with manners weren't supposed to acknowledge in public. But, in unguarded moments his eyes rebelliously drifted toward her tight little bottom and the swell beneath her blouse.

Now, as they entered the flat, his pulse drummed in his ears. His mouth grew dry and fingertips twitched. He stepped into the middle of the room after locking the door behind them, acutely aware of her breathing, the whispery sound of her footsteps across the carpet, the crisp way she moved into this foreign territory. She was taking stock of the place, as he was taking stock of her. He wondered how long he'd be able to keep his hands off her.

“Are the bedrooms this way?” she asked, peering toward a closed door.

“It's through there, yes.” Damn it, he didn't care what he'd promised her. He had never wanted a woman more than last night and now. So what if she wouldn't be around for long after! If his pattern of interest in women proved consistent, he'd sleep with her once, maybe twice, then the heat would be gone and with it his interest in her.

He became aware that she was glaring at him, her hands propped on her hips in a sure sign of displeasure. “Yes?” he asked.

“
It? One
bedroom?”

“This was the only option available,” he explained with a shrug.

She looked doubtful.

“I swear.” Her implication didn't seem fair. He might be secretly lusting after her like a pillaging heathen, but he hadn't intended to force her to sleep in the same bed with him. Although, at the moment the idea seemed an entirely acceptable one. “Everyone who wasn't in town has let out their places to friends for the exhibition.”

“And you plan to sleep where?”

He had to laugh at her skeptically arched brow. She could do that proper-young-lady look so well. He would love to walk straight up to her, tear off her conservative white blouse and stand back to enjoy her reaction. He had a notion that behind all that determination to behave herself, she was burning to be touched. He would be delighted to oblige.

“This isn't the least bit humorous,” she said.

“Of course it is. Do you suspect every man you meet of conspiring to get you into bed?”

She blinked at him, and he wondered if she was
disappointed or just surprised that he'd come out and said it. “You mean you're not?”

“I won't claim innocence. It isn't that I wouldn't welcome the opportunity to join you between the sheets. It's more a matter of having already given up the battle.”

“Oh.” She nibbled pensively at her lower lip, then looked away. Her shoulders gave an almost imperceptible quiver. If this was a woman who didn't want to be loved, then he must have lost all ability to read female body language.

“You, woman, are driving me mad,” he muttered, suddenly overcome by a vital need to kiss her.

In two swift steps he closed the distance between them. Embracing her before she had a chance to dance away, Christopher brought her to his chest. His lips closed demandingly over hers. He expected her to push him away. If she had, he would have let her go immediately and apologized, even though he wouldn't have meant it. But she didn't push, and he had no willpower left to make the effort himself. Then her mouth opened beneath his, and that sign of welcome was far too exciting to pass up.

He loved how sweet she tasted. He delighted in the sensation of her body melting against his. When they had kissed before, he told himself that was all that could ever happen between them. A simple kiss. No more. Then he had caressed her breast, and he'd drawn another mental line beyond which he swore he wouldn't step. Now his mind stopped functioning entirely, stopped laying down rules and limits, stopped demanding he do anything but follow his instincts and satisfy his hunger for her.

He would feel himself inside of her.
He would.

Her voice came to him, as if in a dream, through the blinding heat of his passion. He made himself pay attention despite his body's insistence that he not listen. “Please…” she whispered urgently.

Please…
what?
Was the next word,
stop?
Or
more?
It was a lousy time for the woman to forget how to speak in complete sentences!

With other women there always had been a spiritual distance, a separation between emotion and the physical act. Everything seemed obvious then. The message he got from their bodies, their eyes, their hands was easy to interpret. They had come to his bed to indulge their own desires. Consequently, the sex they shared had satisfied his needs. Staying together for any length of time had not been an issue.

Jennifer had appeared out of the mists of Loch Kerr in a funny red van. She had charmed him before he realized what was happening. He had been too busy flirting and playing tour guide to realize that he was feeling something real and special for her. And now, as he held her, he understood it was too late to step away without causing himself, and maybe her, as well, considerable pain. But it had to be done. It was the honorable thing to do.

He started to push her away, but she clung to him.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he whispered in her ear. “I didn't plan this. Believe me.”

“I don't care,” she whimpered, but he wasn't sure what it was she didn't care about. About her leaving him? About having sex with a near stranger? About his motives for bringing her here?

Still frantically turning over possibilities in his mind, he felt her clasp his hand and bring it timidly to her breast, as if asking him to take up where he
had left off the night before. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, searching for the strength to tell her no. No, he wouldn't make love to her.

But his willpower was depleted.

Holding her trusting gaze, he unbuttoned her blouse and slid his hand inside, beneath the lacy cup of her bra. Her nipple was warm and flat, but hardened immediately against his palm. Low in his own body, he felt a familiar tightening sensation.

Christopher looked down at her breast, naked and white against his sun-bronzed hand. “How beautiful,” he murmured, and bent to touch his lips to the quivering rosy circle beneath his thumb.

She arched against him and shuddered. He licked the tight nubbin, then drew it between his teeth and savored her flesh. As if the bones in her lovely limbs had dissolved, she started to slide from his grasp. He supported her, not wanting to move, not wanting to stop doing what he was doing as he took her other breast and warmed it in his mouth. If ever there was a woman he wanted to bed, this was the one. He'd have plucked her from among thousands.

Through the heavy, steamy haze of his desire, Christopher told himself he should move slowly, not expect too much from her too quickly. He must give her a moment to look into her heart and stop him if she had second thoughts. Although, he prayed she would not. She hadn't touched him at all yet, and he longed to feel her hands over him.

Taking her fingers, he gently pressed them suggestively between their hips. She turned her palm toward him, shaping it over him through his trousers. Even through the textile barrier, the effect of her touch shocked his system. He groaned at the insistent throb.

“If you mean to change your mind,” he whispered hoarsely, “please be kind enough to do it very soon.”

Jennifer stared up at him, her eyes wide. They were the most sincere and innocent he'd ever seen in a grown woman. “I can't tell you why…but I want this,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes briefly in thanks. He didn't know what he would have done if she had told him to leave her, now that she'd driven him so high.

His hand trembling, he moved it toward his belt buckle but she stopped him. “Let me?”

He smiled. She was perfect: curious, frightened, eager, shy and daring…all wrapped up in one delicious woman. If his emotions were in a whirl at this moment, hers must be in a maelstrom. Selfishly he decided he liked his storm, and he would let her weather her own.

She slid down his zipper and slipped her cool fingers inside but hesitated at the edge of his briefs. “It's all right,” he said softly, “if you don't want to.” He would survive, he supposed.

His words seemed to give her courage. Her hand moved beneath the stretchy waistband, and she found him.

“Oh, my,” she breathed as she wrapped her slender fingers around him.

He grew in her grip, but steeled himself against taking his own pleasure, for the time being. First he must see to hers. He felt her hand moving tentatively along him, as if she was testing to make sure she was doing it right.

If you only knew, luv,
he thought, gritting his teeth with the effort. He didn't know how much longer he could hold on.

He ran his hand up her thigh, beneath her skirt. She was wearing his least favorite feminine garment—panty hose. Ignoring the nylon web, he molded his hand over her and pressed gently, learning the shape of her, planning his path. She whimpered again, softly, rested her head heavily against his chest and returned the pressure against his palm.